Anthem of Angels
by Jade Nolan
Summary: In one of Mac's first cases as a detective, he learns just how dangerous it can be crossing the wrong people.  Mac/Claire, and early team members
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

He heard footsteps behind him and turned just in time to see the handle of a gun smash into the side of his head. He fell to the ground, stunned, blood making its way down his face from a gash that instantly opened. As he tried to regain his orientation and stop the world from spinning, the wind was knocked out of him as a boot connected just under his rib cage with enough force to throw him sideways. He gasped for air, and his already hazy vision blurred even further.

Then blows came from every direction as he was surrounded and beaten.

He instinctively covered his head, tried to protect his midsection and twist out of the way. But there were too many, and it wasn't just fists and boots that were used. A tire iron crashed into his arm that was across his face. He would have cried out as his arm broke if it hadn't have been for a following blow to his side, breaking ribs and knocking the wind out of him again.

He was hit again and again.

The beating seemed to last forever. He managed to ward off several strikes, but they came fast and furious, hitting his already damaged ribs, back and extremities. Eventually they proved too much and too many. He stopped feeling individual pain, and his whole being became one giant sheet of dull agony as there became hardly an un-hit part of him. He felt his strength eek away, and gradually stopped trying to evade the blows. His body shuddered as they continued to rain down.

"That's enough," a voice said. It was the first time anyone had said anything. "We don't want him dead. Not yet anyway."

The assault stopped.

He lay still, face down, unable to move, his broken arm still draped limply over his head. Pain coursed through him as he fought to catch his breath and his hazy semi-conscious awareness seemed distant and surreal.

"Pick him up," the same voice said.

Hands ruthlessly grabbed his battered body, and he let out a choked cry as they wrenched on his broken arm and unstable ribs. The man who had spoken walked towards him. Unable to support his own weight, Mac hung limply between the men holding him up, head drooped forward.

He winced as the man grabbed his hair, jerking his head up and back so he could look him in the face. It was covered in blood from a multitude of cuts and his vision was very nearly obscured, but he could make out who it was: Rivera. He should have known. Then he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel press against his exposed neck, and he tensed, going even stiller.

"We told you to stay out of our business," Rivera shook his head, "But you just don't listen, do you?"

"I'm not good at obeying thugs," Mac choked out between short, painful breaths. His tongue felt thick and his words were slurred.

"No, I can see that," Rivera replied, as Mac's cell rang. The unexpected sound made everyone freeze momentarily. Pushing the gun even harder into Mac's neck, Rivera let go of his hair and fished in his jacket pocket pulling out his phone. Mac angled his gaze down to see who it was. It was Claire. He closed his eyes and felt an overwhelming sense of grief. He wasn't afraid to die. Hell, he'd given his life over to borrowed time a long time ago, but the thought of Claire opening the door to a grim Harris telling her he was dead, and seeing her face and her pain, made a new agony tear through him.

Rivera caught the look that flashed across Mac's face. "It's your wife isn't it," he asked with a devilish half-smile.

Mac glared at him.

Rivera flipped open Mac's phone, his thumb hovering over the 'answer' button. "Maybe we should let her hear what happens when you don't do as we instruct."

Terror flooded through Mac, and his throat constricted with near-panic at the thought of Claire being forced to listen to his murder. That was beyond cruel.

"No. Please." he managed, his voice shaking.

Rivera just smiled at him without a trace of humour in the expression. His thumb pushed the 'answer' button, then 'speaker'. Mac could hear the faint sound of Claire's favorite CD in the background. There was a pause as Claire obviously waited for him to answer. Mac swallowed hard, and blinked back the hot tears that had formed.

"Mac?" she said after a few moments, "Mac? Are you there?"

Mac couldn't speak.

"Mac?"

"Answer her!" Rivera hissed in his ear, pressing the gun painfully into his throat. "Answer her, or I'll shoot you right now while she can hear."

"Claire?" Mac managed, his voice tight.

"Mac? Mac, are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm…I…something's come up at work," Mac said, trying to keep his tone as even as possible. He coughed in a vain attempt to keep blood from trickling down the back of his throat.

"Is everything alright? Shall I call you back later?" Mac could hear the instant concern in her voice, and emotion threatened to take him over.

"Yeah," he said, his voice not much more than a strangled whisper.

"What's going on? Are you sure? You don't sound good honey. You've got me kind of worried." She had turned the background music off.

Rivera shoved the gun into Mac's throat again. He choked, and Rivera released some of the pressure.

"Yeah," he managed. "Look, I'll…I'll talk you later, ok?"

"Okay," Claire replied reluctantly. "I love you baby."

His heart threatened to explode into a million pieces at the thought of her trying to call him later, with no hope of an answer. He squeezed his eyes closed as tears escaped him, mixing with the blood that still dripped off his chin.

"I love you too."

Rivera snapped the phone closed. "Well wasn't that sweet," he said mockingly. "Can't say I never did anything nice." He grinned evily.

Mac glared at him with nothing but pure hate. "Why don't you shoot me already and get it over with," he spat.

"Because if I wanted to shoot you, I would have done it from the start." Rivera held out his hand to one of the men who was standing behind him. The man walked forward and handed Rivera the tire iron he had. Rivera took the gun from Mac's neck and stepped backwards, swinging the iron in his hand. "And this gets the point across just as well. Better, in fact. Besides," he continued, his anger growing rapidly and pacing back and forth in front of Mac, "You cost me. You cost me dearly, and now you gotta pay."

He took a couple of running steps towards Mac, bringing the tire iron back with both hands. He swung it full force at Mac's unprotected belly.

Pain like Mac hadn't known exploded through his midsection, and despite being held on each side, he folded over. Rivera hit him again and again. Mac choked on blood in the back of his throat, and through the white sheet of agony, he knew he was really severely injured.

Rivera tossed the tire iron aside and paced in front of him again, breathing hard with the rage and adrenaline that had built up.

"No one crosses and humiliates me!" he shouted. "No one!"

Mac was now completely limp and aware of almost nothing except the excruciating pain that tore through him.

Rivera crossed the small distance between them. He grabbed Mac's blood matted hair, yanking his head up and pressing his gun back into his neck. "You hear me?" he all but screamed at him, spit flying. "NO ONE!"

He released Mac and turned his back on him, taking a couple steps away. He paused, hand tightening and clenching at his side. Then in one motion, he turned with a yell and hit Mac across the side of the head with his gun. Already almost-unconscious, Mac's head snapped to the side and back front. Blood poured down his face as the laceration from the earlier blow opened wider, and Rivera could see the life escaping with it. His white-hot fury subsided and he straightened his shirt. He regained his cold, authoritative anger.

He motioned to the two men who still holding Mac up. "Leave him, he's as good as dead. Let's go."

They dropped him unceremoniously and left.

Mac crumpled to the ground. He lay motionless and barely breathing. He was in so much pain his brain didn't even know how to register it anymore. Somehow though, he retained enough presence of mind to push the little orange emergency button on his radio. He heard the dispatcher say something to try to reach him over the open mic channel that was now keyed to his radio. But he couldn't even understand what she was saying, let alone hope to answer.

His final thought as he stubbornly struggled to breath despite the darkness that crashed over him, was of Claire. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, and feel her arms around him one last time.

His eyes closed despite his efforts, and he lay alone, unconscious, his blood tracing a path along the pavement of the alley.

**Three days previously…**


	2. Chapter 2

_Next installment! Definitely one of the lighter chaps I've ever written, but it was tremendously fun! :D So I hope you all like it. Read, Review, and Enjoy!_

**..._three days prior_**

**Chapter 2**

"_Detective_ Taylor," Claire said with a grin, "Here are your Oatmeal Squares."

Mac groaned, "You aren't going to get tired of saying that, are you?"

"Nope!" Claire said cheerily. "It has rather a grand ring to it."

Mac sighed. " 'grand ring'," he snorted. "Hardly."

"It does!" Claire protested. "Makes you sound all important and dreadfully cool!"

Mac laughed and shook his head, "You going to go give me my cereal or not?"

Claire handed him the bowl with an exaggerated flourish. "Coffee?" she asked.

"Please."

Claire disappeared back into the kitchen and poured them both a cup of coffee and herself a bowl of cereal. She plopped on the couch next to Mac, who was still only his boxers. She handed him one of the mugs, and he accepted it gratefully.

"What time did you get in last night?" Claire asked, noting his exhausted slouch with an inward wince.

Mac propped his bare feet on the coffee table and yawned, "Far too late." He wearily rubbed one eye and set his coffee mug on the coaster in front of him.

"Do I want to know?" Claire asked.

"Nope," Mac said dryly, around a mouthful of cereal. He finished the last spoonful and set the bowl on the table next to his coffee mug.

Claire stared it for a few seconds, and then looked up at him. She didn't say anything.

"What?" Mac asked, confused.

"You never finish the milk."

"You know I don't like how the cereal flavors it!" Mac protested.

"But you eat it with the cereal," Claire pointed out.

"_With_ the cereal, not _without_ after it's gone all sugary and room temperature!"

"awwww…." Claire said in mock sympathy.

Mac just looked at her, stone faced.

Then without a word he reached forward, and before Claire could even think to react, dumped the rest of his milk in her unfinished cereal, sat back and folded his arms, his expression unmoving.

"Mac!" Claire squeaked.

There was a brief pause as neither of them moved, a mischievous devil smile starting to play at the corners of Mac's lips, Claire staring at her cereal bowl, mouth open in disbelief.

Then at nearly the same moment, she lunged at him, and Mac, bursting out laughing, bolted. He skidded into the bedroom just in front of her and tried to quickly close the door. But Claire was too close on his heels. She ducked past him, grabbed one of the pillows off the still un-made bed, and began pummeling him with it.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"You off?"

Mac looked up at Claire who had come around the corner. "Yeah," he sighed, fidgeting with his tie. Claire walked over.

"Here," she said, gently sneaking her fingers underneath his. She smoothed down his collar, "It's fine, Mac. Like you of all people need to worry about how neat your tie looks!" She snorted, "You could make it look perfect if someone was hanging you upside down off a roof! Relax." She stepped back and looked him up and down.

"What?" Mac asked, conceding her point and rolling up first his left shirt sleeve then his right.

Claire reached out and hooked her thumb on his belt, pulling him toward her. She paused, he was close enough so their lips almost touched. She glanced down and then back up at him, "Have I have ever told you how hot you are?" she said, her other hand sneaking up the inside of his leg. Suddenly work was the last thing on Mac's mind.

"You might have mentioned it at some point," he said with a little smile.

"Well it's true." Claire's fingers traced higher, "You sure you have to go just yet?" she asked with a little bite of her lip.

"Yes," Mac groaned tragically.

Claire kissed him slowly. "Well you hold onto that thought then," she said with a sly grin.

"How could I forget?" Mac asked. He clipped his badge to his belt. "When do _you_ have leave?" he asked.

"Not for almost another hour," Claire answered. "First meeting's not 'til ten."

"What did you get up so early for then?"

"I didn't get to see you last night," Claire said simply.

Mac pulled her back to him and gave her one last, hard kiss. "I love you," he said emphatically.

Claire grinned at him, "I know."

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Mac got off the elevator. Even though he was finishing his second week at the crime lab, it still felt a bit weird not to be going to the precinct, but he had a feeling it would take longer yet to get used to not wearing a uniform to work. It was the first time in his entire life he didn't have a mandate on exactly what to grab out of the closet in the morning, and he hadn't yet made up his mind whether he liked it or not.

Nodding hello to a few people he'd already grown to recognize, he made his way to the actual lab part of the lab where he had finally called a halt at 1am the prior night to the analysis he'd been running. To be perfectly honest, he had been a bit apprehensive of this new position. The detective side of his job he had no qualms about, and the role felt very natural. But it had been years since he'd seen the inside of any sort of lab. Granted, he had spent an obscene amount of time in them (god, it felt like he had lived in them sometimes…) back at Northwestern University, but the fact remained that once he had gone active duty with the Marines, science was pretty much the last thing that had been on his mind.

He'd always kind of missed it though. He liked the methodical process, the train of reasoning, thought progression and problem solving that went into figuring out a tangled experiment. Sometimes one had the answer and needed to figure out how to get there from a completely unknown starting point, sometimes the other way around, and sometimes all one had was a vague goal to somehow miraculously get to. And he'd been quite good at it.

But it was one thing to have aced college chemistry and biology back when he was nineteen, it was another story to remember it all more than a decade later and to give it an application he had never used it for before. Plus, he tried to forget how long ago how long ago his days at Northwestern were. Although truth be told, they seemed to belong to another world entirely. He grew pensive, as unsummoned and wordless memories, images and feelings of what he had found himself thrust into after trading the college lab and his ROTC cadet rank for infantry lieutenant bars, drifted through his head. He had taken it all head on, with a decorated uniform and scars to prove it. But although his military service would always be what he'd be most proud of, the specifics of those eight years contained places, people, memories and emotions which not even Claire would ever know. There was no way he'd ever burden her with certain things, and it was safer for him too if they remained locked securely in the back of his brain.

He pulled open the door to the lab and took a moment to stare at the row of white lab coats hanging, waiting on their hooks. He shook his head with a small smile and the complete circle of sorts his life had now taken. Five years ago while breathing liquid heat under the blistering Iraqi sun, again, and wondering if he'd ever escape the hellish desert (except for a glorious 2 years in Japan, apparently no other place existed for him to be sent to…), he wouldn't have dreamed that he'd find himself in an air conditioned lab again. Let alone very possibly spending a good amount of the rest of his career in one. He rather liked the prospect.

He grabbed a coat off the hooks, and was just putting an arm into one of the sleeves when he heard a voice behind him.

"Taylor!"

Mac turned. It was Harris, his new boss.

"Don't put that on just yet. We got a double in the South Bronx that just came in. Grab your stuff."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Mac followed Harris up the stairs to the 3rd floor apartment where their crime scene waited. The homicide detective already there, met them in the hall.

"You two are going to have fun with this one," he said, leading the way down to the end of the hallway.

"Why?" Mac prompted him when the detective offered no further explanation.

"You'll see," the man told him, glancing over his shoulder with a grim smile. "Although one of your people is already here," he continued, addressing Harris.

"Really?" Harris asked with a puzzled look.

"Yep," the detective said, opening the end apartment door for the two CSI's. "Quinn Shelby?"

"Ah," Harris said.

It was a name Mac hadn't been introduced to yet.

"This way," the detective said, leading them down the short hall to the back bedroom. "Here ya go," he said, standing to the side to let them in.

"Holy shit," Mac breathed.

"Told you you were going to have fun," the detective said dryly.

"Someone _has_ to have heard this go down," Harris said in somewhat impressed awe as well.

"You'd think. But everybody in the building is swearing up and down that nothing out of the ordinary was seen or heard."

"Which means they all know exactly who did it," Mac observed with a shake of his head.

"Precisely," the detective nodded. "I'm going to continue questioning the tenants and people around here, maybe _someone_ will give us even a sideways hint at who it is. Although, if it _is_ the guy who runs this area, no one's going to be breathing a word."

"If this is what he does, can't say that I exactly blame them," Mac said.

"Me neither," said a voice from behind him.

He turned to see the other CSI the detective had mentioned.

"There you are," Harris said. "Kingsley said you were here. I thought you were over on 41st and Shelton?"

"Yeah, I was just doing a quick check of the bathroom," she said with a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder. "And I was. But it was so obviously a suicide, I don't even know why we got called out there in the first place," she rolled her eyes. "And you must be the new guy," she continued, looking Mac up and down. She grinned approvingly at him and stuck out her hand, "Quinn. Quinn Shelby."

"Mac Taylor," he replied.

"Don't worry, you didn't miss me, I just got back from vacation," Quinn said in response to his wordless question.

"Ah," Mac said, glad he hadn't been imagining that he hadn't seen her yet.

"You don't say much, do you?" Quinn observed. "Man of action, not words?" she continued with a small wink.

Mac cleared his throat and glanced down briefly in momentary embarrassment. "Something like that," he said, looking back up smiling, amused despite himself.

Quinn turned from him, eyes still dancing with mischief. "You want me to stick around?" she asked Harris.

"Yeah, if you don't have another call," Harris said. "This, is going to take a while."

The three of them turned back to survey the small bedroom.

"Yes, yes it is," Quinn observed.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Want to take a guess at motive?" Quinn asked rhetorically.

"HA!" Mac snorted, looking up from photographing. He gestured towards their male victim who was the current object of his camera. "Only a guess?"

Quinn glanced over her shoulder and regarded their victim whose genitals had been cut off and stuffed into his mouth. "Yes, you do have a point," she said wryly. She turned back to collecting samples of the blood spattered all over the walls and pooled on the floor and mattress. "So how long have you been with the department?" she asked.

"Three years," Mac replied, moving to the other side of the bed and turning his attention to the female victim that was draped across the chest of the dead man and staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

"That's it?" Quinn said in some surprise.

Mac shrugged, "There was an opening here, took some science in back in college, figured I'd go for it."

"Oh? Where at?" Quinn asked, interested.

"Northwestern," Mac answered.

"A Chicago boy huh?" Quinn drawled, dragging out the 'a' in 'Chicaaago' exaggeratedly.

"mm-hmm," Mac replied, purposefully paying closer attention than really necessary to the laceration which had transected the female victim's neck nearly all the way through the trachea, and hoped Quinn wouldn't start grilling him further about his past. He would always love Chicago and Lake Michigan, whose beach never failed to bring him a sense of peace; but the city was filled with haunted ghosts for him, and most times he preferred not to dwell much on it.

"So'd you get sick of the lab or something in school and go to the academy to have some fun on the street? Or was taking pictures of dead bodies where you planned to end up?" Quinn queried.

Mac laughed, distracted by Quinn's persistent line of questioning before he started brooding. "Not exactly," he said, "I spent a few years with the Marines. Originally thought I might retire from the Corp."

"Wait, a few years with the Marines?" Quinn asked, puzzled, doing a mental double-take, "How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

Quinn restudied him carefully in surprise for a few seconds. "I would never have guessed it," she said in appreciation.

Mac smiled. "Believe it," he said wryly.

"So why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what?" Mac asked.

"Do your twenty and retire?"

Mac cleared his throat, images of all his deployments and the look of unspoken hope in Claire's eyes when he had first mentioned not re-signing and his father clinging to the last shreds of his life in a hospital bed, all swirling through his head. "Life," he said simply.

Quinn nodded, sensing Mac didn't want to say anymore, and left the subject.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Mac cut the thin cord that had tied the male victim spread eagle on the bed, so the coroner's office could take him away. He grimaced at the torture the man had been put through, even though it wasn't the first time he'd seen such a thing and worse. Quinn and most people might be surprised that he was as old as he was, but he sometimes felt far older even than that. But he'd been plunged long ago into dealing with sights and situations and emotions and responsibilities that most people never had to deal with their entire lives. It was a very weary, lonely feeling, and sometimes he still found himself simply sitting staring off into space, his soul feeling as used up as though he was at the end of his life and not even less than half-way through it. It was those times that Claire would simply sit next to him, slip her arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder in quiet, unspoken understanding of the indescribable weight he carried with him. And the ache of both the mental and physical scars he endured, would ease, the ghosts haunting him fading to the distant recesses of his mind. She was his life, and could never know just how much he loved her.

"Well, like I suspected, no one's heard or seen a damn thing," Kingsley said, coming back in the bedroom.

"What do you already know about this local power-house?" Mac asked, his drifting train of thought instantly interrupted.

"Name's Victor Rivera, and he's got a very violent reputation," Kingsley said dryly.

Mac arched an eyebrow, "Why does that not surprise me."

"Well yes, quite," Kingsley said.

"Wife? Girlfriend?" Mac queried.

"Wife," Kingsley replied grimly, "Although we don't have an ID on who she is exactly. You think this is her?"

"She's not wearing a ring," Mac said, "But if she was having an affair with whoever our male victim is, I'm not surprised. And this whole thing has vindictive rage written all over it. Do you have any idea on who our guy is?"

Kingsley slowly shook his head in thought. "No," he said, "He looks vaguely familiar, but it's hard to tell with how beat up his face is. Did you find any ID on him?"

Mac shook his head, "Any clothes they had, were taken, and I'd assume his wallet went with them. If he _is_ any associate of Rivera, odds are he'll show up in the database."

Kingsley nodded, and turned as one of the uniformed officers came up to tell him something.

From the doorway, Harris simply leaned back and watched as his newest detective took easy charge of the investigation, despite the fact that both him and Quinn were there. He was impressed with how fast Taylor had pieced together their suspect, the visual evidence at the scene and his subsequent line of questions for Kingsley. Even Harris hadn't connected it any quicker. He'd been rather skeptical initially based solely on Mac's application, because despite his superb record, he _had_ only been on the department for three years with no prior police background. But any reservations he might have had were quickly blown away after interviewing him. There was a quiet, sharp intensity to the man that spoke of more experience that could one could put on paper, and even though it had only been two weeks, Harris had been nothing but impressed since. He had no doubts that whatever Taylor decided to do with his career, he would go far. Harris only hoped the new detective would stay with his department.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Well your guy is definitely one of Rivera's associates," Giles said, handing Harris a printed report sheet. Harris passed it to Mac.

It had taken them the better part of the prior afternoon to finish processing the apartment, and the small bedroom had been fairly littered with yellow evidence markers by the time they were done. Whoever had committed the crime hadn't made even the slightest effort at restraint, and one could have created nearly a series of instructional lectures from the blood spatter that had been on all four walls and the ceiling.

"And not just any associate. His right-hand man, Vincent Quinterro," Giles continued. "And yes, his final COD is, believe it not, _not_ exsanguination from the obvious mutilation, despite taking quite the beating first."

Harris and Mac looked at each other.

"He died of suffocation," Giles said.

"What?" said Mac.

Giles nodded. "I found both petecial hemorrhaging as well as bruising on and around his nose."

"Wait, so you're saying…" Mac started, hardly able to believe the scenario that Giles was laying out.

Giles nodded again, "He was suffocated by his own balls and penis. They stuffed them in his mouth and then held his mouth shut while they pinched his nose."

"So… he was very much alive for… it all," Mac said.

"I'm afraid so," Giles said with a wince, "Poor bastard."

"What about our female victim?" Harris asked, clearing his throat and not particularly wanting to think any longer about how Quinterro died. "Any id on her yet?"

The ME pushed his glasses up and walked around to the table which was next to where Quinterro was lying, "Sophie Marie Rivera. She showed up due to a felony trespassing charge five years ago."

Harris and Mac exchanged a look.

"Why? You know who she is?" Giles asked, looking between the two.

"A pretty good idea, yes," Harris said. "You got anything on her besides, again, the obvious?" he indicted the transected neck.

"I do, and I think it should help you. There are hand and finger bruises on both her arms where she was held and presumably forced to watch whatever was done to our poor bastard over there," Giles gestured back to Quinterro, "And I found quite a bit trace under her fingernails from where she'd obviously fought back… abrasions on her knuckles… whoever did this, is definitely going to have marks on them."

Harris nodded, "Thanks, Leonard." Just then his phone rang, "Detective Harris…" he answered, turning and ambling a few steps away. "Yeah?... You sure?... What did he say?... uh huh… Here's the problem with that…"

Giles regarded Mac who had hardly said anything the entire time, but nonetheless, had had nothing but the most studied attention and interest on his face. He stuck out his hand, "Leonard Giles. I've seen you down here, but I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm the head ME down in our 'vault'."

Mac smiled and shook the other man's hand. He had taken an instant liking to the meticulous Medical Examiner who looked like he should be teaching in one of those old-fashioned college lecture halls. "Mac Taylor," he replied.

"So how many people have you been introduced to and expected to remember so far?" Giles asked with a quiet amusement.

"Quite a few," Mac laughed.

"You got a wife? Kids?"

"Wife. No kids," Mac replied.

"Just as well," Giles grimaced, "I have a nine year old who thinks she seventeen. Oh the drama! I don't think I want to know what seventeen will actually look like," he continued.

Mac nodded sympathetically, but felt the familiar twinge whenever anybody talked about their kids or asked if he had any. His and Claire's decision to at least put off having any themselves, had been paradoxically both the easiest and hardest decision they'd made. While he was still a recon infantry officer in the Marines, it had been a foregone and very natural conclusion on both their parts. But then with his subsequent line of work and both of them establishing their respective careers in NYC and simply enjoying being married, they had never seriously revisited the subject. And if he was perfectly honest with himself about it, he would have to confess he was torn on the subject, his intimate knowledge and experience with the dark and very mortal side of life, providing both the best and worst reasons for bringing a child into the middle of it all.

"…yeah ok. I'll be right there…" Harris shoved his phone into his pocket and turned back around. "Mac? Call Kingsley, let him know what we got, and see if he's managed to track down Rivera. I have to go the DA's office and sort out something about a case from a couple months back." He rolled his eyes. "You alright going with Kingsley to question our guy?"

"Yes."

"Ok. I'll catch up with you as soon as I point this DA assistant towards the light at the end of his arsehole," Harris said, with another roll of his eyes. "You go see if our dear boy Rivera knows anything his wife ending up on poor Dr. Giles' table."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Kingsley pulled up opposite one of the buildings Rivera was reputed to hang out, and where one of his contacts had finally indicated that Rivera was currently favouring. The two detectives got out of the car and surveyed the abandoned apartment building. Behind them, the squad car with the two uniformed patrol cops they had brought with them for backup also parked and exited their vehicle.

Mac was actually quite glad to get out of the lab and be doing something he was more comfortable with. Claire had often told him he expected and demanded far too much out of himself. But he couldn't bring himself to do less, and right now, going to question a very dangerous and violent drug dealer felt far less stressful to him than the pressure of refamiliarizing himself with a lab _and_ catch up on the technology which had mercilessly advanced on without him.

The two detectives and the two officers crossed the street and headed up to the top floor of the building.

"Well well well, look who it is. Seems like the good folks of the New York Police Department have seen fit to pay us a visit," the man in the center of the room drawled, looking up as Mac, Kingsley, and the two officers entered the room which had been right off the elevator. The rest of the occupants of the abandoned apartment suite drifted over to stand menacingly behind him.

"Victor Rivera?" Kingsley asked.

"I might be, I might be," the man said. "And who are you? Them," he indicated the uniformed officers, "Them, I know who they are. But you, you could be anybody."

Mac found his patience rapidly disappearing at Rivera's attitude.

"I'm Detective Kingsley, this is Detective Taylor," Kingsley said with an wave of his hand in Mac's direction. "We need to ask you a couple questions."

"Ask away," Rivera said. "Can't promise you an answer though."

"Where's Quinterrro?" Mac cut in impatiently.

"Not here, obviously," Rivera said with a little grin.

"Yes, I know that," Mac interrupted shortly, "Otherwise I wouldn't be here asking you about him, now would I? Where and when was the last time you saw him?"

Rivera demeanor chilled a couple of degrees as he realized Mac was not going to play along with his bluster. "This morning," he replied, "I sent him out to do a couple things for me."

Mac took a couple steps forward. "And your wife?" he continued.

"My wife?" Rivera blustered.

"Yes, your wife. When and where was the last time you saw _her_?"

"This morning," Rivera said, voice icy.

"You're lying," Mac said. "_This_ is where they've been the past two days." He handed Rivera the autopsy photos of Quinterro and Rivera's wife lying in the morgue.

Rivera studied the photos for several long seconds, any shred of bouncing bravado disappearing, instead replaced with a dangerous calm. When he looked back up, his eyes were two blocks of steel. He slowly handed the pictures back to Mac.

"I suggest, detectives," he said very quietly, "That you simply leave well enough alone while you still can."

Mac took another couple steps forward, oblivious to the fact that Kingsley reached out a hand to try to tug him back. He glanced at Rivera and noticed a bite mark, clearly new, on the man's right forearm.

"Where'd you get that?" Mac asked nodding towards the injury.

"That isn't any of your business," Rivera said.

"I think it's very much my business," Mac replied in as equally quiet of a voice. "In fact I'll tell you exactly what's my business."

Those standing behind Rivera shifted uneasily, as the tension between the two men facing each other off, grew palpable.

"I think you found out they were having an affair," Mac held up the two pictures again.

Rivera simply stared at them, face rigid.

"I think you found out, and just couldn't stand that these two, of all the people in the whole world, would go and do something like that. After all, I don't doubt you loved her, loved her too much and she sought out someone else. Someone else more…understanding."

Rivera's lips pressed tight together, and his eyes flashed.

"But you loved her, you really did," Mac continued. "She just couldn't see that. But with Quinterro? Your 2nd in command? Your most trusted compatriot? That was too much. And how could he betray you like that? They deliberately mocked you. And why not? After all, if you can't even keep the ones closest to you loyal, you deserved to be shown up."

Kingsley, along with everyone else in the room, watched in hushed silence, all of them afraid of setting off the explosion that was sure to happen if someone so much as breathed wrong. Kingsley had to admit, this new detective had guts. He wasn't sure even _he_ could bring himself to be that blunt with Rivera.

Across from Mac, Rivera stared down the detective who was standing in front of him, acutely aware of his men standing behind him and the impression this whole thing was making.

"I wouldn't have said that, Detective," Rivera said, his voice glacier cold. "I told you, _business_, was taken care of. Now, I suggest you leave… while you can."

Mac gave him one last, long stare. "Next time I'll be back, it'll be with a warrant," he said, and turned back towards Kingsley and the two uniformed officers.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx **

"Be careful, Mac," Harris warned him when Mac had brought him up to speed on the events of the afternoon. "Rivera is not a man to be trifled with. Although," he chuckled, "I would have loved to have seen all that." Harris crammed a couple of folders into an already over-flowing box, and shoved it underneath his desk, giving it a little kick to urge it exactly where he wanted it to go. "You headed home?" he asked.

Mac nodded, "Yes, actually."

Harris pretended to look shocked. "What? No staying here and being hunched over the lab table or microscope for hours? This'll make the first time since your intro orientation day that you haven't!"

Mac smiled somewhat sheepishly, "No, not tonight. Claire has the day off so she's making some sort of special dinner that I even have to pick up dill/rosemary goat cheese for."

Harris coughed sympathetically. "Good luck with that one, Mac," he said, as Mac turned his office door handle to leave.

Mac chuckled, "Thanks!"

"See you tomorrow," Harris told him, fishing another couple folders out from a box that was also stashed half under his desk.

Mac headed out, infinitely looking forward to a relaxing evening with Claire (whatever she was experimenting with for dinner regardless), and maybe even a good night's sleep.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Mac winced as his radio suddenly hissed loudly with scratchy static, and his hand flew to his belt. He'd forgotten to drop it off before leaving. He swore to himself. Oh well, he was going back in tomorrow, no point in returning it now. Turning the volume on it all the way down, he slouched his left hand on top of his steering wheel and turned his attention back to finding a parking spot. _Dill and rosemary goat cheese?_ _What the hell did one use dill and rosemary goat cheese for?_ Mac shook his head, a bit dubious about Claire's new dish she wanted to try out. Spying a spot that someone was fortuitously just pulling away from, Mac expertly parallel parked next to the curb, and walked the block back towards the shop that had this special, all-important goat cheese.

He pushed the shop door open, and as the sound of the jingling bell died, he let his brain have a moment of totally overwhelmed bafflement at the shelves and displays and strange food that presented themselves to him. Immediately abandoning the idea of finding anything on his own, Mac headed to the counter.

The shopowner looked up. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yeah, I need dill/rosemary goat cheese?" Mac replied uncertainly with arch of his eyebrow.

"Oh yeah, right here," the shopowner said, pointing out a large lump of green-flecked, old cream-cheese looking stuff. "How much do you want?"

"Oh, um…"

Mac hadn't thought to ask Claire how much she needed. He had assumed it came packaged like every other cheese he bought at the grocery store. Clearly, it didn't.

"You can get it ¼ lb increments," the shopowner offered helpfully.

That still didn't tell Mac how _much_ Claire wanted, just by how much he could be off by. "Can you hang on a second?" he asked.

The shopowner nodded.

Mac fished his phone out of his pocket and turned away from the counter as he dialed their apartment number. He waited for Claire to answer as their phone rang.

"Hello?"

He half-smiled at the sound of her voice, despite his frustration.

"Hi honey," he answered. "How much cheese did you need?"

"um…12oz I think," Claire told him. "Hang on, let me double check."

Mac could hear dishes and pans clink together as Claire extricated her recipe card folder from under whatever she had stacked on top of it. He sighed as the mental image of what the counters must look like filled his mind. He smiled apologetically over his shoulder at the shopowner who waited patiently.

"Here it is!" Claire said triumphantly. "Yes, 12oz."

"Ok," Mac replied. "Do you want me to just get a full pound so you can have a bit extra if you want it?"

"Yeah actually. That's a really good idea," Claire said enthusiastically.

"I have my moments," Mac said dryly. "Right, I'll be home in a little bit."

"Sounds good," Claire replied. "Love you sweetie."

"Love you too," Mac said, and flipped his phone closed. He turned back around to the long suffering shopowner. "I'll have a pound, please," he told him.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Mac slid his sunglasses on as he pushed the shop door open and headed back up the street towards his car. But as he crossed the street and walked past a delivery truck which had been obscuring his view of his car, he saw someone facing and leaning against his drivers door, clearly trying to jimmy it open.

"Hey!" he shouted, dropping the small bag of cheese and his right hand unsnapping his gun holster.

The attempted car thief looked over his shoulder at Mac. He grinned at him maliciously before running off down the street.

Furious, Mac dashed after him.

The little bastard was fast, and he nearly lost sight of him as they bolted across a street. Car horns blared as they crossed against the light, and Mac half-jumped half-slid across the hood of a taxi as it slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting him. The driver swore colourfully at him out his open window. Mac paid no attention. Without missing a beat, he twisted lithely out of the way of an SUV who also skidded their tires and laid relentlessly on the horn as he cut in front of it.

Mac felt a surge of almost joy. The adrenaline rush of the situation filled him, and he embraced it fully. As much as he liked his new position and the opportunities it gave him, he hadn't fully realized how much part of him acutely missed the rough and tumble side of being in patrol. To say he'd spent his entire career up until now in an adrenaline charged atmosphere, would be an understatement of vast proportions, and adjusting to the lack of it was proving a rather unexpected and not entirely pleasant surprise.

Reaching the other side of the street, Mac saw the man he was chasing duck down the next alley he came to. Skipping sideways to avoid a kid barreling towards him on a bicycle, Mac rounded the corner and into the narrow alley which had staggered garbage bins from one end to the next, and that seemingly perpetual dampness. He could feel sweat start tracing along his back and down his chest from the exertion of the full speed chase, and his hair clung to his neck and forehead.

Then suddenly two additional men appeared at the end of the alley and started walking towards him and his pursuant, who began to slow down. Mac felt a thrill of unease course through him, every alarm bell in his mind screaming at him. The man he was chasing hadn't been trying to break into his car at all, but rather, ensuring he would get Mac to follow him into this alley. Mac pulled to a halt and drew his gun.

"Stop! Hold it right there! NYPD, put your hands in air!"

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_As always, hope you guys liked it, and please review! :)_


	5. Chapter 5

_Just wanted to start of by saying a huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, and a special shoutout to my "regulars" :) I also want to thank you all for your patience. I know updates tend to be a bit long in coming thanks to very 'Mac-like' work hours I pull on the ambulance. So yeah, big thank you's all around :D And without further ado..._

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Mac took a couple of deep breaths and forced his heart rate and respirations down to a slightly more normal level.

Both the man he was chasing, and the two who had appeared shortly after rounding the corner, stopped in their tracks.

"Put your hands in the air!" Mac repeated.

The one he'd been pursing spread his hands out at his sides and slowly turned around, a smile slowly spreading across his face. The bad feeling that been niggling in Mac's chest, spread.

Then he heard footsteps behind him and turned just in time to see the handle of a gun smash into the side of his head. He fell to the ground, stunned, blood making its way down his face from a gash that instantly opened. As he tried to regain his orientation and stop the world from spinning, the wind was knocked out of him as a boot connected just under his rib cage with enough force to throw him sideways. His own gun flew out of his hand and skittered along the pavement. He gasped for air, and his already hazy vision blurred even further. Then blows came from every direction as he was surrounded and beaten…  
… He would have cried out as his arm broke if it hadn't have been for a following blow to his side, breaking ribs and knocking the wind out of him again….  
… He felt his strength eek away, and gradually stopped trying to evade the blows….

…Hands ruthlessly grabbed his battered body, and he let out a choked cry as they wrenched on his broken arm and unstable ribs. Unable to support his own weight, Mac hung limply between the men holding him up, head drooped forward…

…"I'm not good at obeying thugs," Mac choked out between short, painful breaths. His tongue felt thick and his words were slurred…

…Rivera took a couple of running steps towards Mac, bringing the tire iron back with both hands. He swung it full force at Mac's unprotected belly. Pain like Mac hadn't known exploded through his midsection, and despite being held on each side, he folded over. Rivera hit him again and again. Mac choked on blood in the back of his throat, and through the merciless white sheet of agony, he knew he was really severely injured…

…"No one crosses and humiliates me!" Rivera shouted. "No one!" He crossed the small distance between them. He grabbed Mac's blood matted hair, yanking his head up and pressing his gun back into his neck. "You hear me?" he all but screamed at him, spit flying. "NO ONE!"…Then in one motion, he turned with a yell and hit Mac across the side of the head with his gun. Already almost-unconscious, Mac's head snapped to the side and back front. Blood poured down his face as the laceration from the earlier blow opened wider…

…They dropped him unceremoniously and left. Mac crumpled to the ground. He lay motionless and barely breathing, in so much pain his brain didn't even know how to register it anymore. Somehow, he managed to retain enough presence of mind to push the little orange emergency button on his radio which was still clipped to his belt. He heard the dispatcher say something to try to reach him over the open mic channel that was now keyed to his radio. But he couldn't even understand what she was saying, let alone hope to answer…

…He was so cold, and when it came right down to it, he was scared. Facing death and injury in battle was one thing, feeling it slowly and inexorably creep up on him was another. His eyes closed despite his efforts, and he lay alone, unconscious, his blood tracing a slow path along the pavement.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Jim Harris' phone rang. He set down the folder he had been studying. "Harris," he answered.

"_Hello, Detective? This Heidi from dispatch. We've gotten an emergency alert from a radio logged out to one of your detectives, and we haven't been able to get an answer or a 'cancelation' from him. A…"_ the dispatcher paused, _"Detective Mac Taylor? Do you know where he is?"_

Harris sat up straight, the case he had been reviewing entirely forgotten. "No, I don't. He left work about an hour ago."

"_Well we haven't been able to get a hold of him, and all that's coming across the channel is background intermittent traffic noise. All we can tell is that he's not in a particularly busy area, or at least his radio isn't."_

"Thank you," Jim said hurriedly to the dispatcher, "Keep that channel open, I'll send one of my people over to see if we can help narrow down a location." He pushed the disconnect button without hanging up the receiver, and immediately dialed Mac's number. But Mac didn't answer. He redialed again. "Dammit Mac, pick up," he muttered. But all he got was Mac's voicemail.

Harris stood up, grabbing his own radio and keys off his desk. He made a beeline for the elevator. "Quinn!" he called as he marched down the hall, "I need you to get central dispatch to patch an open emergency alert channel that they have, up here, and track down where's it coming from. Now!"

Quinn looked up from the phone call she was on, puzzled. "Hang on," she said to the person she was talking to. "Sure, Jim. What's going on?" she called after him.

Harris looked over his shoulder as he pushed the elevator button, "Taylor's missing."

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Jim picked up the radio mic from his center console as he skidded his car out of the parking ramp, "Dispatch, 8137, any update on that emergency alert?"

"Negative, Detective. Still no contact."

He swore colorfully to himself as he drove across the city. On a hunch he took a route which would take him in the direction of Mac's apartment, even though there was no guarantee that his choice of how to get there would have been Mac's. Still, it was as good a guess as any, and better than simply driving around in an increasingly wide radius.

Harris peered up and down the streets, the minutes and blocks ticking by, and there was no sign or word from his missing detective. Harris' stomach settled from unease to downright Han Solo-I-have-a-bad-feeling-about-this kind of level.

Then he spotted Mac's car parked along the side of one of the streets, and skidded to a stop. Not caring that he blocked off an entire lane of traffic, Harris threw on his emergency lights, parked his car and got out. He hurried over to Mac's vehicle. It was empty. Swearing, Harris glanced around. There was no sign of Mac anywhere, up or down the street. On a whim he headed south, glancing down the narrow alleyways that formed myriads of crisscrossing shortcuts from one street to the next.

He crossed one, two, then three streets at a slow jog, shouldering deftly past other pedestrians, without a sight of his missing detective. A sinking feeling threatened to take over his chest. It had been a good 15 minutes since he had received the call, and probably at least 25 since the alert had first been activated. As time passed without any contact from Mac, the odds that he was in genuine trouble rose exponentially.

He pulled his cell out of his pocket, and dialed Quinn. "Quinn? Talk to me, please tell me you got something."

_"Not much, Jim, sorry. The best I've able to do is, based on the echo of the background noise, the source is in an alley and stationary. But there aren't special identifiers that I can pick up on. I'll keep working on it and call you if I get anything_."

Harris nodded, "Thanks, Quinn." He shoved the phone back in his pocket, and looked around in frustration. Still moving with a purpose, but slowing his pace, he headed back towards Mac's car.

And finally, glancing down a side alley, he saw a familiar figure, lying face down on the pavement and not moving. A knife twisted Harris' insides, and he ran towards him, praying he didn't find the worst.

"Mac! Mac!" he called.

The man didn't move.

Harris' heart plummeted as he reached his fallen detective.

"Ah Jesus," he breathed, dread settling into his stomach as he saw the extent of the injuries Mac had sustained. He dropped to the ground next to Mac and rolled him up onto his side, gently lifting his head out of the pool of blood in which he had been lying.

"Mac?"

Mac's eyes didn't so much as flicker beneath his closed eyelids, and his body was completely limp. Harris steadied Mac's back against his knees and supported the young detective's head in the crook of his left arm while he almost frantically keyed his radio.

"Dispatch, I have an officer down and unresponsive at 112th and Ophelia, in the alley just south of 112th. I need a bus here _now_!" Harris didn't even pay attention to what dispatch said to him beyond their acknowledgement of his request. He double-checked to make sure Mac was still breathing.

He was. Barely. The young man's respirations were so shallow that Harris had to rest his hand on Mac's chest in order to detect them. Given what he knew of Mac's background, Harris wondered what the hell had happened to have ended in such a result.

"Come on," he urged Mac gently, "Hang in there! Hang in there." He willed for the ambulance to get there sooner.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The microwave dinged at the exact moment the station tones went off. Morgan threw up her hands in exasperation. "Every fucking time!" she swore in frustration.

"I'm telling you," her partner chuckled, "Just don't do it. It's cursed."

"_I'm_ cursed," Morgan grumbled, "And how exactly am I supposed to eat if I don't heat it up?"

"It's still edible, cold," her partner said, grinning.

Morgan threw the roll of paper towels at him. "Fuck. you!" she said viciously.

Justin ducked the flying missile, and burst out laughing.

Then dispatch interrupted them with the info about their impending call, "Station 22, respond priority one to 112th and Ophelia, in the alley south off 112th, on an officer down, unresponsive, possible not breathing.

"Ah fuck," Morgan said, swearing for the third time in almost as many sentences, her stomach twisting icily. Although this time it had nothing to do with a cursed microwave. She and Justin all but ran out to the garage and their truck.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Morgan had never run on a call where an officer had been injured. She both did and didn't want to. On the one hand the call itself was one they all dreaded hearing go out. They and the police might work for different departments and never back down from their ages old rivalry, but ultimately they were all one. They were united in watching out for their city. And if one them did pay for that duty with their blood, Morgan wanted to be the one to make sure that blood didn't turn into a life.

As they pulled up to the scene, Morgan's jaw all but dropped at the sheer number of cop cars that were crowding the street. She wondered just how they were going to get anywhere close. But at the appearance of the ambulance, there was a scurry of activity, the sea of vehicles parted, and before she knew it, they had been ushered through. She parked the truck at the end of the alley and jumped out. As she quickly went around to the back and threw the jump bag on the stretcher, she addressed the uniformed sergeant who had precipitated their access to the scene.

"Do you know what happened?" she asked him.

"Looks like he got jumped and beat really bad," the sergeant answered, agitation and impatience radiating off him.

"Is he breathing?" Morgan asked, the dispatch info echoing in her head.

"I don't know… I think so," the sergeant replied.

Morgan heaved a huge internal sigh of relief. She did _not_ want to work a possible cardiac arrest on a police officer, or worse ever, have to pronounce him dead on scene. The angry, hyped energy crackling on the air was bad enough now. She hated to think the intensity it would turn in to if the officer died right there.

The downed officer was young but clearly already a detective of some sort, lying crumpled on his side in a pool of blood that was still slowly trickling from an enormous gash on the side of his head that looked as if it went all the down to his skull. His right arm was obviously broken, and Morgan could see a thin line of blood and a triangular shine of white a couple inches above his wrist where the bones had broken through.

"What's his name?" Morgan asked, all but throwing herself on her knees next to him, not caring that her uniform pants became instantly soaked in his blood, and checking for his pulse and breathing at the same time. Both were far too fast and barely detectable. At least they were there.

"Mac. Mac Taylor," the older man in shirtsleeves who had been kneeling behind him and holding him up responded in a shaken voice. His partner, Morgan guessed, noting the detective badge on the man's belt as well.

"Mac. Mac! Can you hear me?" Morgan called.

Not a shred of a response. The familiar sinking feeling of a really bad call settled with dread in Morgan's stomach. "How long has he been down?" she asked.

The older man shook his head, "I don't know exactly. 45 minutes maybe?"

Morgan nodded grimly. "Justin, we gotta get going," she said. But her partner had already anticipated her request, and in less than two minutes, the young detective was in the back of their truck and Morgan was cutting off his shirt while Justin hooked him up to their equipment. Transferring him from the ground to their stretcher had finally elicited sounds of pain from him, which Morgan had greeted with grim relief as a sign he wasn't entirely unresponsive. But Morgan's stomach sank again as she removed his blood-soaked shirt. She could barely tell where one bruise stopped and another started. But even worse than his clearly broken ribs, his entire abdomen was rigid and miscoloured. He was bleeding internally, and bad. She and Justin exchanged a knowing look.

"You ready to go?" Justin asked.

"Yeah," Morgan said. "I'll do everything else en route."

Justin nodded, and jumped out the side door. He backed carefully out of the sea of cops. Morgan heard the sirens start back up as they headed down the road, and she did her best to ensure the dark-haired detective who was stubbornly fighting for his life in the back of her truck, kept it.

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_Once again guys, thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy it, and please review :) _


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: _Huge thanks again to all who reviewed! :) Here's the next installment__, and I hope you all like it! Also, since I've been very slack and haven't said this before, I don't own any of CBS' original characters, but I do own the others, especially Jim Harris as I like continuity amongst my stories and have him featured in more than one. There, I said it. Now go enjoy the chap!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Mac had no idea where he was. His head pounded mercilessly, it hurt to try to open his eyes, it hurt to breathe, he couldn't move his right arm, and his belly was a mass of throbbing indescribable pain. He struggled to figure it out, but his brain was hazy with drugs that made actual thinking next to impossible.

The last thing he remembered was someone yelling something at him from the helicopter… …then an explosion… the world turning upside down and sideways…  
…then he was on his feet and staggering back to the burning shell of the truck… …somehow dragging an unconscious Sgt. Jeffries to the waiting chopper, his ears ringing so loudly he couldn't hear anything…  
...his vision shaking and black spots threatening to engulf it… pushing back the impending darkness and trying desperately to catch his breath… staggering ever closer to the helicopter and his men who were waving him towards them… stumbling under the dead weight of his injured Sgt…  
…finally hands hauling him and Jefferies into the waiting Blackhawk…  
…he could feel the chopper lift off the ground… trying to see if Sgt. Jeffries was alright while attempting to blink away the black spots which kept growing… hands shaking him "_Major! Major! Come, on, stay with me!"_  
…then nothing…

He drifted in and out of a fitful, drug-induced semi-conscious. The noise, heat and chaos of the desert mixing with the nauseating pain and frigid haze of the current, and he wasn't sure which was worse and which was a relief of the other. Nothing fit together in his head. He couldn't figure out why his arm didn't work or why his belly hurt so badly… he didn't think he'd been hit in either place… on some level he knew the memory of what had happened wasn't the right one… but he couldn't recall anything else either, and all he could see was Sgt. Jeffries' blood-covered face and closed eyes as he dragged him across the sand. He wanted Claire, and wondered if she even knew what had happened to him and where he was. But even if she did know, she was back in San Diego anyway. A sense of despair washed over him at the thought of her being thousands of miles away and unable to come to him. He wanted her with him more than anything. But it was an impossibility. He faced the bleakness of his situation; and with nothing more that he could do, simply fought back the pain and thought about nothing more than surviving the immediate moment.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Claire was no stranger to hospitals when Mac was involved. He'd been injured to greater or lesser extents ever since she had first met him. It was an occupational hazard and almost a given when one was a deployed infantry Marine, officer or no; and he'd taken his share of knocks and stitches as a beat cop as well. And although it never got easier seeing him hurt, most of the time she had had to force her stubborn, at first boyfriend, and then husband, to an ER. A handful of times he had called her after he'd gotten stitches or some other treatment so that he could get picked up (which meant he had miraculously gone without any prompting on her part), and rarer still were the times when his commanding officer had been the one to have to call her; certainly never anyone from the police department. In fact the last time she had gotten an official call was when he was still with the Marines while he was on his last tour and mission, and beyond vague generalities about what had exactly happened he still wouldn't tell her. But even then, despite the shrapnel that had peppered the entire left side of his body, a severe concussion and a few burns, he hadn't been as badly injured as he was now.

She approached the nurses' station. "I'm looking for my husband, Mac Taylor," she said, a threatening lump forming in her throat.

"Ah yes," the nurse sitting at the first computer said kindly, standing up. "He's actually my patient. He's in 803. I'm Ian, I'll walk you down there."

Claire nodded gratefully. "How is he?" she asked, almost too scared to know the answer. Harris had tried, but had been unable to keep the fear out of his voice, even over the phone.

"Not _too_ bad, considering," Ian answered guardedly. "Did the surgeon talk to you at all, give you a rundown on what's going on?"

Claire nodded. She couldn't remember her heart pounding more painfully or being more scared than when the trauma surgeon had made his appearance in the waiting room.

"Well, we're still running blood and he's still pretty critical, but so far he's _relatively_ stable given his injuries."

Claire took a deep breath, and felt some of the edge of her gnawing fear dissipate.

"He's been fairly agitated and confused though," Ian continued as they approached Mac's open door, "So we've got him pretty well medicated."

Claire nodded, taking in all the iv pumps and tubes and wires and _things_ surrounding Mac. His eyes were closed, and a slight frown creased his forehead. He looked incredibly pale.

Ian gave her a little, reassuring smile, "Let me know if there's anything you need. I'll be in in a little bit to check on him."

Claire nodded again, returning Ian's smile weakly. "Thank you," she told him. She took a steadying breath and walked into Mac's room.

Mac turned his head as he heard her come in. His eyes, half-bleary from the medications, were surprised, confused, and torn with pain. Claire felt her heart wrench as his dawning recognition gave way to a pure, unfiltered pleading look. Claire felt tears spring to her eyes despite having told herself over and over on the elevator ride up that she wouldn't cry, and she crossed the room to him in two giant steps. She took his hand, and he gripped it with a desperate tightness. The tension, agitation and pain pouring off him was palpable. Leaning down next to him, she gently stroked his hair. It was still matted and thick with blood. He tried to speak, but was unable to.

"Shhh. It's ok, Mac. It's okay." Her voice choked. She kissed him between the cuts and bruises on his face, "I'm here, I'm here. It's ok. I love you _so much._" Mac closed his eyes. His breathing eased, and Claire could feel his whole body relax.

Mac had no clue how Claire had managed to be there. But she was. And that was all that mattered. He still had no idea where he was precisely or exactly what had happened, and his pain was still so bad he felt unrelentingly sick to his stomach, but it didn't matter anymore. Claire was with him. He held on to her tightly, feeling entirely and utterly safe. With her arms around him, he gave up his inward fight and let himself succumb to his absolute exhaustion.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Quinn, talk to me. What do you got?"

Quinn sighed and leaned her hands flat on the table. "Not much," she said. "In fact, I got absolutely nothing out of the alley beyond blood patterns that confirm what happened. I mean, I can pretty much piece together the sequence of the event, but besides being able to figure that there were at least three people involved in the assault, there isn't anything to give us their identities. No fingerprints, no weapons, nothing."

Harris hissed in frustration.

"We _might _be able to match a boot impression from his forearms, but most of the bruises are through his clothes, so there's really nothing distinct. Aside from gathering that they also used what looks like a tire iron or thin metal pipe, I got nothing." Quinn handed Harris the pictures of Mac's injuries that she had taken right before he'd been wheeled into surgery.

Harris slowly leafed through the stack and his stomach twisted as he saw exactly the damage that had been done to his detective. The boot marks all over his back and chest… the angry, lengthwise bruises covering his arms, legs and abdomen from the weapon used… his closed eyes, and face covered in dried blood… Harris wiped his hand over his own face. If he didn't know better, he would have thought the person in the photos was… he refused to finish the thought.

"I'm surprised he's still alive," Quinn said quietly, finishing it for him.

Cold anger filled Harris that anyone had dared harm one of his team. He was already nearly positive of who had done it. It was no coincidence that Mac had been beaten only hours after Rivera had lost face in front of his men because Mac had refused to back down. But like with the crime scene at the apartment, for all the seeming evidence they had, there was actually precious little, if anything, that could tie Rivera to any of it.

There was a brief pause as both Quinn and Harris stared at the pictures which were once again spread on the table.

Quinn broke the silence first. "Why the hell don't we just bring him in, Jim," she said looking up, her voice shaking slightly with fury. "Didn't you say Mac saw a bite mark on him which looked fresh and potentially belonged to our female vic? We could haul him in on a warrant for that."

Jim shook his head. "And if for some reason it doesn't match and we have nothing else? He walks, and it becomes nearly impossible to get him after that. He'll go to ground, and we'll never find him. No, we need concrete evidence first so there's no chance of this bastard getting off."

Quinn sighed, "Yeah, you're right. It's just…"

"I know," Jim said quietly. "Quinn," he continued, "You said you could piece together exactly what happened?"

Quinn nodded, "Pretty close to it anyway."

"Okay, I want a full recreation and a precise ID of the weapon used. And have Chad finish processing Mac's clothes. If there's _any_ trace we can use for comparison when we get these guys, I want it."

"Where are you going, Jim?" Quinn called after him.

Harris turned and continued walking backwards towards the elevator as he answered, "Mac's car. His bag of groceries was on the ground next to it, like he'd dropped it. Maybe that's where this whole thing started, and there'll be _something_ useful we can get."

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Mac dreamt fitfully, and Claire could guess only too well what his dreams were about. Although it had been a while since he had been plagued with them on any regular basis, she remembered vividly all the night after nights he'd start tossing and turning and muttering in his sleep, snapping out of it in an almost panic and often drenched in sweat as she'd gently wake him. Not to mention when he simply didn't sleep at all.

Running her fingers through his hair and putting her head next to his, she spoke gently and reassuringly in his ear, easing him out of whatever world he was living in again. At her touch, he jumped, and her other hand, which was still holding his, was almost crushed in his frantic grip. He looked around panicked until his eyes found hers.

"Claire?" he asked hoarsely in utter confusion.

He was in such obvious trapped and helpless pain-filled frustration that Claire wanted to cry.

"Where?... How?..." he continued, brokenly.

"New York," Claire said gently, knowing instantly what he meant. "You got beat up, Mac," she told him, choking back her tears, "You got beat up pretty bad." She watched as he struggled to recall the events that had placed him for the third time in his life in an ICU bed.

Her words echoed through his head…_ "_Beat up_"… "_New York_"…_ _New York…? There was no military hospital that he would have been sent to in New York… Beat up? _The real memory was so close, and yet just out of grasp. "Window?" he asked.

Claire nodded and got up, drawing back one of the curtains that was across the window in his room.

It was night, and Mac stared out into vast array of lights that lit up New York City, making the streets never get truly dark. He let the view of the city sink in. It was very familiar and oddly comforting. Claire sat back down next to him, and gently slipped her hand back into his. He continued gazing out into the sea of yellow dots and the vague outlines of building after building receding into the darkness. And then it all poured back and he remembered, unconsciously flinching as his whole body recoiled at the memory of the immense pain he'd been put through. He remembered the merciless pummeling, barely able to catch his breath between blows and unable to see anything except asphalt, the boots that kept kicking him, and his blood that ran into his eyes… his arm breaking and then twisting as they hauled him off the ground… the abject fear that Claire would hear him die… his stomach and entire abdomen feeling like they had been exploded as Ramirez hit him over and over…

Despite his ribs sharply protesting the movement, he pulled Claire to him, and squeezed his eyes closed.

Claire saw the memory of whatever had happened, flood back to him. His hand tightened on hers. Then suddenly his whole arm was around her, pulling her close and tight, his head buried in her neck. His forehead was hot and damp with sweat, and his breathing was short and jagged. Claire wrapped one arm carefully and protectively around his shoulders, and held onto him, too consumed with emotion to speak.

Time stopped, and nothing existed for the pair except each other.

The memory of that hellish day in the desert slowly faded back to its proper place, but was still frighteningly vivid.

"He died, you know," Mac managed quietly after a long while.

"Who?" Claire asked.

"Sgt. Jeffries."

Mac had never mentioned him before. But then he'd hardly breathed a word about that last mission, even though it had earned him a silver star, and Claire had no doubts that that was where he'd been again until she'd jogged his memory. She wished so badly she could take his pain away, and not just his physical pain. She knew that despite the passage of time, he still carried around the grief and guilt of the men who he'd served with that had died, and there were still some things and events he chose to simply lock away.

"I couldn't pull him out in time," he said, his voice very distant.

"It wasn't your fault, Mac," she said, staring intensely into his eyes. Mac held her gaze with a haunted expression. He closed his eyes wearily and laid his head on her shoulder, and Claire knew that somewhere, he'd never really truly believe her. Her heart ached for him.

She lay next to him, still half-seated in the chair next to his bed, and he held on to her for a long time. His breathing eventually evened and slowed, and he finally fell into a genuine sleep, his arm still wrapped around her. His warm breath on her neck and the weight of his arm draped across her was the most comforting thing she could imagine in the whole world. She still had her Mac. He hadn't been taken from her yet.

Then with a small sound, his arm tightened around her and his head pressed into her neck as a sudden jolt of pain shot through him.

She cradled the back of his head as he pressed it forward against her shoulder. He clenched his left hand, which had been resting on her back, in a fist, and he was almost trembling from the effort of trying to contain the level his pain had been steadily increasing to, and had now edged its way past his walls.

"It hurts so much," he said in a barely audible, strangled voice.

For Mac to confess such a thing even to her, screamed volumes. "ssshhhh, Mac, shhhhh, it's ok," she said quietly, the tears finally escaping. His whole body felt worryingly hot, and instead of his pain coming back down, if anything it seemed to get worse. Claire felt something in him slowly disappear as he tried, but was already too spent to continue fighting. She felt fear settle into the pit of her stomach.

Mac felt the edges of everything grow less distinct again. He was hot… he could feel the heat radiating off his body as if he was back in fatigues with a full load… but there was a cold chill to it as well that lent an edge to everything else already torturing his body…

"I'm going to call your nurse," Claire told him quietly in his ear. He gave a weak nod, his head never leaving her neck. Claire reached one hand over and pushed the call button that was looped around the rail of Mac's bed.

"_Can I help you?"_ a voice on the other end of the speaker asked.

"Yes," Claire cleared the lump in her throat that was becoming increasingly persistent, "My husband's in a lot of pain, and I don't think he's doing too well."

On the other end of the speaker, Ian heard the tremble in Claire's voice. It might be jaded, but most times he took what patients' family members said, with a grain (or a lot of times, an entire shaker) of salt. They typically simply didn't have the medical knowledge or emotional stability to be able to accurately judge what was going on with their loved ones. But 803's wife had struck him as remarkably clear and level headed despite the obvious emotional struggle she was experiencing, and he had found himself instantly respecting her. And now, there was something in the understated way she said her husband wasn't doing well, that sent thrills of urgency through Ian.

"I'll be right there," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **_My apologies for not having updated this in so long. I had a couple of one-shots that got written, and my jobs have conspired to force me into way too many hours. And I just want to confess to you guys that I'm usually close to terrified about posting an update. I don't know, I get like publish jitters or something, and lose any confidence that what I'm putting out there makes sense. So if it doesn't, please let me know if you have problems following anything or __you think something needs to be worked on. But anyway, hope you enjoy this chap regardless, I promise the next one won't be so long in coming, and please review! :)_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Harris tried to calm down his racing heart as he stepped off the elevator on the eighth floor of the hospital. He hadn't heard a word from anyone about Mac's condition, and he hoped that no news was good news.

A nurse at the desk pointed him in the direction of Mac's room, and Harris took a moment to collect himself before approaching it. He knocked softly on the half open door before pushing it open. The woman sitting next to Mac's bed and holding his hand, looked up as Jim entered. He saw her eyes flit to, and quickly identify the badge clipped to his belt.

"Mrs. Taylor?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I'm Jim Harris."

"A face to the voice and name," she said wryly.

Jim managed a tight smile. "I thought I'd stop by to see how he was doing instead of simply calling."

Claire nodded again. She wasn't sure whether to feel grateful, or let her feeling of wanting to kill the messenger win out. But Harris looked so stricken and exhausted himself, that grudging gratitude won in the end. It wasn't his fault. It was mostly that Claire had let herself think the risk of receiving another such call as the one she had gotten from Harris the day prior, had finally become almost non-existent. But this was Mac, and knowing how he never backed down from anything or anyone, she ought to have known better.

"Thank you," she said, "He's said a lot of good things about you."

Jim shuffled his feet slightly in embarrassment. "Well your husband is an amazing detective," he told Claire.

Claire wasn't in the least bit surprised to hear Jim's praise, even though Mac had been working at his new position only three weeks. There wasn't anything Mac put his mind to that he didn't excel in. It kind of went hand in hand with his stubborn streak of never backing down. He simply _never_ did anything half-heartedly, and whether it was a hobby or his job, he threw himself into things with a calculated but almost reckless abandon.

Jim nodded towards Mac. "How is he?" he asked quietly.

Claire looked down at her husband who was knocked out with medications and, despite a small frown still creasing his forehead, finally lying peacefully. "Um, ok," she said guardedly, swallowing a tremor in her voice. "He spiked a pretty bad temperature they had a bit of trouble bringing down." She glanced up at the IV bags and pumps which were running, remembering the quiet flurry of activity that had followed her call to Ian. "They're keeping him sedated until he's more stable."

Jim sank into one of the other chairs in the room. "I'm sorry, Claire, I'm so sorry."

Claire nodded her thanks, feeling tears start in her eyes. She took a deep breath and forced them back.

Jim leaned his elbows on his knees heavily. "I hate to make anything about my visit up here official, but I have to ask… Was he able to tell you anything about what happened?"

Claire shook her head. "No no, it's ok," she said, "But no, he wasn't. He didn't even remember that he…" she swallowed hard, "had been beat up." She didn't tell Harris that Mac had thought he had been back in a military hospital, opting to let him think Mac had simply had short-term memory loss. "He did after I told him," she continued, "But I didn't ask any further, and he didn't tell me anything."

Jim nodded. He really hadn't expected anything else, and considering he had honestly wondered if Mac was even alive when he had found him, he was surprised Mac had woken up enough to remember even that much. He pushed himself wearily out of the chair and fished his card out of his pocket. He wrote his cell phone number on it and handed it to Claire. "I'll let you know any updates as soon as I have them, that's an absolute promise. But if you want to call at 2:30 in the morning to ask, do it."

Claire knew he wasn't just saying that as a rote comfort phrase or offer. She took his card and set it beside the phone on the little side table.

Jim looked at her searchingly, and was struck by how young she looked. Damn, either these kids were getting younger or he was getting older. _Definitely the latter_, he thought with a grimace, but still, she seemed scarcely older than his oldest. Which again, just served to remind him how much older _he_ was getting.

Taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the way she slumped exhaustedly in her chair, Jim felt a surge of paternal concern. "Do you have any family that's here?" he asked.

Claire smiled wanly. "My parents are flying back from Oregon where they were visiting my brother. They should be coming in tonight."

"Good," Jim said. He looked at Claire earnestly, "Well call me if you need _anything_. Ok?"

Claire nodded gratefully.

"Hang in there," Jim said, giving her shoulder a little squeeze as he left, "It'll be ok. Mac's going to be fine, and I'm going to catch the son of a bitch who did this."

Claire watched Jim disappear down the hall. She could see why Mac had spoken highly of his new boss. She looked back down at Mac. His lips were slightly parted, and his breathing was finally easy and relaxed. She squeezed his limp hand in both of hers and wearily lay her head down next to his shoulder.

"_You_ hang in there, Mac," she told him quietly. "You hear me? You hang in there."

His fingers twitched in her hand.

Whether it was a coincidental reflex or Mac had actually heard her through his drug induced near-coma, Claire didn't care. Her heart leapt at the small movement. She leaned over and kissed him gently on his cheek. "I love you," she whispered in his ear.

His eyes didn't flicker and his breathing stayed steady, but his fingers twitched again in her hand.

Exhausted and drained, the emotions that flooded through Claire were almost overwhelming. She buried her face in the edge of Mac's pillow and let the tears finally come.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Jim rubbed his eyes as he pulled out of the hospital parking ramp. He was getting too old for pulling hours like this. He was down to single digits in counting the years to his retirement, and some days it felt as though that fable day couldn't come soon enough. His phone rang.

"Harris," he answered

"_Jim, I just realized something."_

It was Quinn.

"Go on," Jim prompted.

"_Do you have Mac's cell?"_

"No."

"_Well Chad finished processing Mac's clothes, and it wasn't with them. Everything else is accounted for but that."_

"Did you try dialing it?" Jim asked.

"_Of course," _Quinn said almost scornfully.

"Sorry, sorry," Jim said hurriedly, "No answer then, I take it?"

"_No,"_ Quinn replied, _"But it didn't go straight to voicemail either, so it's still on somewhere."_

_Thanks, Captain Obvious_, Jim thought, but bit back saying it out loud. He was tired, and his temper was short. "Right, well keep trying to call it. I'm going to head back to the crime scene and see if it's outside our original search parameters."

xxxx

They had searched every inch of the alley and through every garbage bin and dumpster looking for the weapon that had been used. But while they had located Mac's gun wedged behind a dumpster where it had apparently flown out of his hand, no other weapon had been recovered, and they certainly hadn't found a cell phone.

Jim stood at the entrance to the alley, and let frustration at everything and the whole situation boil through him. He hit his fist against the lamppost next to him and tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of useful order. Maybe Mac's phone had fallen out of his pocket between his car and the alley. Possible but unlikely. The most likely answer was that Rivera had taken it for some reason, and to get a search warrant he needed more than the circumstantial threat that Rivera had given to Mac. He swore out loud and hit the lamppost again. The few pedestrians passing by looked sideways at him, but Jim didn't even notice.

He leaned his back against the lamppost, crossed his arms, and stared absently into the street and thought.

Then something caught his eye a few yards up from where he was standing. Fresh skid marks that were pulling away from the curb led down the street away from the crime scene. Theoretically they could have belonged to anyone in a hurry, but these were particularly dark, not exactly from your average 'I'm-in-a-hurry' person who spins their tires a little.

Jim pushed himself away from the lamppost. There was no way he could know for certain, but he was willing to wager money that the skid marks belonged to the vehicle that Rivera and his gang drove away from the scene of the crime. He knelt down beside the curb and inspected the them. They were definitely caused in more than a casual hurry. He looked over his shoulder at the business directly behind him. They had canvassed the area with everyone denying they had heard anything, something which still incensed Harris. There was no way a beating like the one Mac had endured wouldn't have gone unheard by _someone_.

There was a lull in the ambient noise as the light at the intersection changed, and traffic in front of Jim came to a stop. He tilted his head to the side. He thought he'd heard something. It was coming from behind a stack of boxes by the door of the liquor store behind him. And it sounded like a phone ringing. Jim's heart beat a little faster at the prospect of finally getting a break.

And there it was, scratched up on the edges from where it had hit the wall, but ringing faithfully away. It must have been thrown out the car window as Rivera and his men left. Pulling a pair of gloves out of his pocket, Jim picked it up, and flipped it open. Hitting 'send', he simply talked into the speaker without putting it to his ear. "Quinn, we got it." He grinned.

xxxxx

Three hours later they got a match on the only other prints on the phone besides Mac.

Victor Rivera.

And now, armed with both an open-ended search warrant and an arrest warrant, Jim headed back out.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** _Finally I have the next update! I know it's not a cliffie, but there **is** a bit more to the story before it's over, after all, the original case still needs to get solved ;) Hope you guys like this chap! And once again, please review!_

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"_Yeah yeah, I'll stay with him…" he heard a man's voice say._

"_You sure?" _

_That was Claire._

_He felt himself relax even further than he already was, at the sound of her voice._

"_It's no problem," the man said. "Go."_

"_Ok," (Claire again), "If you're sure. Thank you."_

"_Don't mention it."_

_The man's voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Mac couldn't place it. Oddly enough, he didn't care. It was kind of like his pain now. He recognized somewhere in the back of his head that it still existed and was there, he just simply didn't care. He felt as though he was at that stage of sleep of being just awake enough to be sort of cognizant of the outside world, but still far too asleep and too comfortable to move or do anything more than lazily think about the vague sounds that floated through his consciousness. It felt like bliss._

_He felt Claire's hand slip into his, and her lips gently kiss his cheek._

_That, he did want to respond to. But the bare thought of moving was exhausting, and the will to do so didn't make it past his brain and fervent wish that he could open his leaden eyes and see her and pull her close._

"_I'll be right back, sweetie. I love you."_

_She kissed him again._

_He wanted her to stay. But he was too tired. He felt everything become less distinct as though the effort of actually understanding part of a conversation around him had been too much. He felt a final squeeze on his hand before hers left his. He wanted her back. But the desire simply settled into a sort of depressive wish as the welcoming darkness of pure exhaustion crashed over him again._

"_Thanks again, Leonard," he distantly heard Claire say._

_Why did that name sound so familiar?_

_But like everything else, the thought slipped away into the gulf of oblivion._

xxx

Leonard Giles propped his feet on the side table next to Mac's bed, and swung his chair back, flipping through Mac's medical chart. Technically he wasn't supposed to be looking at it, but the irrepressible doctor in him had not been able to pass up skimming through it when it had been left on the corner of the sink counter in the room. Keeping one eye on the vitals monitor above Mac's bed and giving his mental approval of all the readings on it, he glanced through the ER and surgical summaries in the chart.

He had seen the pictures Quinn had taken of Mac, but his stomach still twisted as he read the full damage report.

Severely lacerated liver.

Ruptured spleen, that they had somehow managed to repair. Giles was impressed.

Bruised kidneys.

Open, compound arm fracture.

Six broken ribs.

Cracked right pelvis.

The grade III concussion seemed nearly insignificant at the bottom of the list.

Mac was lucky he didn't have a full-blown head injury. And it probably wasn't by accident. Given its severity, whoever had administered the beating had clearly wanted him with it and conscious for the whole thing. It was cruel and vindictive in every sense.

Giles took a deep breath and dropped his feet to the floor as he stood up, closing the chart and placing it back on the corner of the sink. He'd seen victims with fewer and less severe injuries end up on his table, not in a hospital bed. He leaned on the railing of Mac's bed and took in the bruises that were visible on his arms. Curiosity and medical interest got the better of Giles again, and he gently unsnapped the left shoulder of Mac's hospital gown, pulling it back just far enough to look at the man's torso. Giles winced at the overlapping myriad of deep discolorations that covered Mac's upper body and circled around to his back.

The man had suffered, and badly.

Sitting back down, Giles turned the tv on low, keeping one eye on some random show that half caught his interest, and an eagle eye on the tenuous stability that, for the moment at least, Mac was miraculously clinging to.

**xxxxxxxxx**

"You know who that is?" Jim asked, placing a picture in front of Rivera, who they had finally caught up with. Someone had tipped him off that they had a warrant out for him, and he had disappeared for two full days before one of Kingsley's informants revealed where Rivera was holed up.

Rivera looked down at the dead face of Vincent Quinterro, his former right-hand man. "Yes," he replied.

"And this?" Jim continued placing a picture of Rivera's wife in front of him.

Rivera barely glanced at it, a look of anger, betrayal and contempt instantly coming across his face. "Yes," he bit out.

Jim paused before slowly laying down the next picture. "And this?" he asked, leaning his hands on the table and speaking carefully, "You know who this is?"

Rivera looked at the picture briefly, his belligerent attitude returning. "Nope, never seen him before."

"You should," Jim said, "That's my detective who you beat so bad he nearly died."

The briefest look of startled surprise flashed across Rivera's face, but he instantly suppressed it and nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders before putting on a look of fake sudden realization. "No, wait. I do remember this guy. He came up the other day with some other detective, accusing me of murder. Didn't even have a warrant. I have half a mind to bring him up for harassment." He slouched back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"So you're saying that you had nothing to do with how he ended up in an ICU."

"Nope."

Jim nodded slowly. "Ok," he said. He lay another picture in front of Rivera. "You know what this is?"

Rivera craned his neck to look at it. "A cell phone," he said, settling back into his chair.

"His cell phone to be exact," Jim said, pointing back at Mac's picture, "With his blood on it," Jim added.

"So?" Rivera smirked, "He looks in pretty bad shape. I'm sure it does."

Jim bit back the urge to smash Rivera's head into the metal table as he leaned across, looking Rivera dead in the eye. "Do you know what else we found on it?" he asked.

Rivera leaned in as well, "Why don't you tell me. Because so far I haven't heard a single solid reason or piece of evidence as to why I'm here."

"Your fingerprints."

"Yeah? So what? He almost forgot it when he came around the other day. I was generous, handed it back to him."

Jim leaned closer across the table and pushed a close-up photo of the buttons of the phone, in front of Rivera, "Your fingerprints, _in_ his blood!" he finished with a sudden explosion.

Rivera jumped slightly before his face went completely stonewall and silent as he realized the implication of Harris' evidence against him. "I want my lawyer," he said finally.

Jim stood up and collected up the photos. "Yeah, I bet you do, you piece of shit," he said angrily. "He was supposed to die, wasn't he. That's why you look surprised when you found out he wasn't."

Rivera just crossed his arms again and looked away.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," Jim said disgustedly. "Fucking piece of shit." He slammed the interrogation door closed behind him.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Mac jerked awake with a start, the abrupt _realness_ of everything flooding through him. The light was sharp and blinding, and he immediately closed his eyes against it. His heart was pounding. He couldn't remember anything specific about what it was he had been dreaming about, but the residual feeling was so vivid that he almost expected to find himself waking up on a field cot with his boots on and M16 at his side. But nothing around him was vague or fuzzy anymore, the distinct waffle pattern of the hospital blanket under his bare arms and the sharp pain from his broken ribs as he slowed his breathing down and let his heart rate return to normal, bringing him instantly to where he was. He squinted as he tried to open his eyes against the brightness of the sun across his face and instinctively tried to raise his right arm to shield his eyes. He immediately regretted the decision as pain shot from the middle of his forearm down to his hand and up to his shoulder despite the splint that encased his lower arm.

He lay still for a few moments, eyes still closed, collecting his thoughts and marshaling everything in his head and body into some semblance of order and control. But he must have given some indication of his return to consciousness, because a shadow fell across his face and a voice spoke next to him.

"Mac? You ok? You awake, son?"

Mac cracked his eyes open. The sun now shielded from his face, he could actually see. He looked up at the figure that was standing over him. "Sir?" he asked in a confused, hoarse voice.

"How many times do I have to tell you, don't call me 'sir'. I actually worked for my living," Eric Conrad growled, "Unlike _some_ people who were an _officer_." But he gently squeezed Mac's shoulder with a smile, "How are you doing?"

Mac just nodded, trying to keep a grimace out of his face as there didn't seem to be any part of his body that he could move without some level of pain. Except his feet. Those seemed to be ok, he thought rather wryly. But even just trying to bend his knee a little sent an aching throb through the joint. He gave up torturing himself by trying to move, and settled for simply looking around. "Where's Claire?" he asked as Eric turned and went back to his seat against the wall at the end of Mac's bed. As the sun fell unobstructed across his face again, Mac winced and turned his head. Eric, noticing, pulled the curtain half-way closed before picking up the paper he had been reading and answering his son-in-law's question.

"She and her mother went down to the cafeteria to grab something to eat. Should be back fairly soon."

Mac nodded and closed his eyes, trying to piece together all the bits of memory that were floating through his head into some sort of chronological order and sense of time. Although it seemed a lifetime ago, he remembered being taken by surprise and beaten in the alley, and he vaguely remembered the haze of confusion after he had first woken up. But after that initial, brief semi-awakeness, everything was shrouded in a non-descript jumble of voices and bits of conversations and blankness.

"How long has it been?" he asked.

Eric looked up from his paper. "You've been out for four days," he replied, "And here for five."

Five days. Mac tried to wrap his head around a sense of lost time.

"What day is it?" he asked.

Eric was about to answer when there was an exclamation from the doorway.

"Mac?" Claire about dropped the styrofoam container of food she had brought up as she rushed over to him.

Mac wrapped his left arm around her tightly as she enveloped him in a careful but all-encompassing hug, and closed his eyes. Her hair was soft against the side of his face, and she held him as if she'd never let go. He didn't want her to either. His last real memory, the intense longing for her against the indescribable _aloneness_ and fear that had filled him as he lay in the alley feeling himself die, surged forward. He took several shuddering breaths. He'd been badly injured before, but he'd never found himself in the position of being absolutely convinced that once darkness overtook him he would in all probability die, and facing that utterly alone.

Claire, feeling him tense and sensing his sudden emotion, rested her cheek against his and held him even closer. "It's ok, Mac," she murmured in his ear, so low that only he could hear her, "It's ok, it's over."

He gave the faintest nod. His bruised body and broken ribs ached and stabbed at Claire's tight hold on him, but Mac couldn't have cared less. With Claire's arms around him, the remembered fear of that moment faded, and he was able to push it back to its rightful place.

The two held onto each in a long, timeless moment.

"Your husband's been calling me 'sir' again," Eric growled from behind his paper in the corner, pretending he hadn't noticed and been touched by the look on Claire's face as she had realized Mac was awake, and the obvious love between the two.

Mac bit back a grin.

Claire raised her head slightly and gave him a soft, slow kiss before releasing him. Mac sank into the kiss, his whole body relaxing and forgetting everything else. He kissed her back, absolutely everything else disappearing except the warmth and love that flooded through him as Claire gently lay a hand on the side of his face and he tasted her soft lips on his. He brought his arm down and intertwined his hand in her hair and rested it on the back of her neck. It all became nothing more than a distant nightmare.

Claire pushed herself up so she could look into Mac's eyes as the two broke apart. She smiled, "Damn, Mac, I thought you were supposed to be just out of a coma."

Mac gave Claire a small smile back, "I'd have to be in a grave to not be able to kiss you, and more."

"Oh shut up," Claire said to him in a hushed voice, grinning and blushing, "My parents are here!" Mac just smirked at her. Claire took a couple long seconds to look at him. He still looked utterly wiped out. His hair was a complete mess, and five days worth of stubble combined to give him a decided disheveled look. Not to mention he still had all sorts of lines and monitors hooked up to him. But despite it all, his eyes shone back at her with that mischievous twinkle, and she knew everything was going to be just fine. She gently cuffed him on the non-injured side of his head. "Behave yourself," she told him. But even through his exhaustion, the devious sparkle in Mac's eyes was irrepressible. Claire shook her head and smiled exasperatedly at him as she looked over her shoulder, "And dad, quit giving him a hard time."

"I think he can handle it," Eric said from behind his paper. He folded down the top of it with a sly grin, "Sure doesn't look like he needs an ICU anymore."

"Dad!" Claire exclaimed.

Eric just chuckled and lifted the paper again as he resumed his hiding place.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** _Just a little explanation on a couple things. I found myself having a really hard time coming up with characters that were around in s1 that I could include. Because this takes place 1995, Danny's out, Aiden's out, Dr. Jane Parsons is out, Stella is out, and Flack is out. So even though he's a really minor lab character in s1, I've included Chad, who, if anyone remembers, was the tech who analyzed the broken glass from the pickup truck in 'Hush' and traced it to the victim's husband's glasses and the video camera used. Anyway, that's who Chad is._

_Also, because it's 1995, there really was no DNA analysis at the time, certainly no database of any sort yet, and the only testing they did was for a direct comparison with a known suspect, and the source from the crime scene had to fairly large. I know too that cell phones were in their infancy at the time, but they did have "flip" phones of sorts, where the speaker piece would fold up over the buttons._

_Aaaaaaand, I think that's it! Hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks for reading and please review! :)_

* * *

**Chapter 9**

After Claire left to take her father back to their apartment, and her mother had gone with her as well having insisted she'd straighten the place up and make some food so Claire could come back to the hospital, Mac, still with heavy doses of painkillers running through him, half-dosed, the sun falling warm across him. He was still in a fair amount of pain, but it was far more manageable than his prior, brief return to consciousness a few days previously, and at least his head didn't feel as if it was being split in two anymore. He lazily squinted his eyes open and took in the sight of the city outside his window. Being only eight stories up, he couldn't see very far through the density of buildings, but insulated from the noise and business of the streets, the sunny view filled him with a sense of calm. His eyes drifted closed again as sleep crept back over him. He didn't dream.

xxx

The sound of someone opening the door to his room woke Mac up. He turned his head to see Claire enter, followed by Jim Harris. Claire leaned down and kissed him gently. "Hi sweetie," she said.

"Hey beautiful," Mac replied, his eyes shining with a warmth that belied the tiredness in his voice and the array of medical equipment surrounding him.

"How are you doing?" Claire asked as she stood back up and smiled at him.

"Ok," Mac nodded.

Claire gently squeezed his shoulder and moved farther toward the head of his bed as Harris stepped around from behind her.

"Hey Mac," he said, "Good to see you looking better. You decided to make quite the start with the department, didn't you?" he finished with a chuckle.

"Can't say it was exactly my plan to do it this way," Mac replied with chagrin.

Jim laughed, "No I bet not! You up for answering a few questions?"

Mac tried to push himself slightly further up in bed, but he nearly gasped as pain flared across his broken ribs. He mentally slapped himself upside the head for attempting something he knew he shouldn't have. "Sure," he replied, keeping his face carefully neutral and easing himself back down as the stabbing fire in his chest slowly subsided.

"You sure?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Mac nodded.

Jim rounded his bed and drew up a chair. Sitting down, he leaned forward on his elbows and pulled out his notebook, "So, tell me what happened."

Mac briefly outlined the events which had led to him now lying in an ICU. Acutely aware of Claire sitting next to him and listening to the whole thing, he kept his statement as clinical and technical as possible for her sake. He certainly wasn't going to send her out of the room, but it was something he had hoped she wouldn't have had to hear. It quickly became a physical effort to talk anyway, and keeping his story brief and to the point was not hard.

Her eyes never leaving his tired face, Claire could feel Mac's reticence and hesitancy as he spoke, and she knew it was it was killing him for her to actually hear _what_ had happened to him. Because as cut and dry as he tried to make it, being able to now visualize the raw brutality of what he'd endured tore at her, and she knew he would have done anything to spare her the pain. The gash on the side of his head and his broken arm lying limply on the covers, not to mention the rest of the damage to his body, the body she knew so well, filled her with an intense anger at the ones who did it all to him. She intertwined her fingers with his, her eyes flashing.

By the time Mac had finished his statement, he found he was unconsciously bracing his upper body between each sentence, and his heart rate had inched its way up so that it was now pounding against his chest. He lapsed into grateful silence, catching his breath, as Jim nodded in satisfaction, scanning the notes he had taken.

"Yeah, that fits pretty much exactly with what Quinn managed to work up for a reconstruction," Jim said. He flipped over a couple sheets of his notebook, "So there were five total?" he double-checked.

"Five, including Rivera," Mac confirmed, carefully keeping his growing discomfort out of his voice.

Jim looked up, "Think you could identify him?"

Mac nodded. "Definitely," he replied.

Jim leaned over and fished a folder that was overflowing with papers, from under his chair. Removing an array of photos, he pulled over the wheeled bed tray that was currently off to the side, and spread them out on it.

Mac immediately pointed out Victor Rivera.

"Could you ID any of the others that were there?"

Mac pressed his lips together as he cast his mind back and ignored the pain that had steadily built up as he had talked, and which now stabbed sharply at his ribs with every breath and sent a relentless throbbing ache through his abdomen. Claire, who had never let go of his hand the whole time, squeezed it as she sensed his growing struggle. "The one who pretended to be breaking into my car, yes," Mac answered, closing his fingers gratefully and firmly around Claire's, "The two who were at the end of the alley…" he said slowly, running the event forwards in his mind, "Maybe. The fifth…" He shook his head, "No, I'm afraid not. I never got the chance to actually see him. I'm sorry."

Jim looked at Mac's shadowed yet determined eyes, and knew if he really wanted to he could push his young detective for more detailed information and the man wouldn't think twice about persevering. But by now, Jim could practically _see_ the exhaustion and pain that Mac was fighting through and trying to hide, and he stood up. "No, it's ok," he told Mac as he collected the photos from the tray and put them back in the folder. "We got more than enough for the DA to proceed, and Kingsley's working on bringing in the rest of Rivera's guys." He laid his hand on Mac's shoulder, "You get some rest, ok?"

Mac nodded, and unbidden relief flooded his face.

Jim smiled and nodded at Claire as he turned and left the room.

Pure exhaustion crashed over Mac as Claire leaned against his bed and ran her fingers through his hair. His whole body relaxed at her touch, and the jackhammer in his head eased up a bit. But the dark shadows under Claire's eyes sent stabs of guilt shooting through him that hurt far worse than his physical pain. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"What the hell for?" Claire asked.

"Putting you through all this," Mac managed, fighting to keep his eyes open. He was still in more discomfort than should dictate an easy drop into sleep, but his body had had enough and was clearly deciding to take over and plunge him into unconsciousness. "I should've…shouldnt've…"

Claire put her forehead down next to Mac's and placed her finger on his lips, cutting him off. It would figure, she thought. Leave it to Mac to shoulder the blame and responsibility for something that wasn't even remotely his fault. She knew he saw the whole thing as a failure on his part to protect her from the worry and pain she had been through since receiving that call from Harris. And not only did he hate seeing her distressed in general, it _killed_ him if he was the cause of it, regardless if it wasn't his 'fault'. He always figured he should have been able to do _something _to prevent the circumstances causing it. And it wasn't an archaic, chauvinistic attitude either, otherwise Claire would have given him a severe reality check a long time ago. He had shouldered the same responsibility towards the men under his command and their families when he was still the Marines. Claire felt a lump form in her throat at the weight that Mac so unfairly always laid on himself.

But the utter ludicrousness of him also apologizing for losing against five heavily armed thugs, made her almost laugh. Trust him to do _that_ as well…! "Don't be so fucking stupid, Mac Taylor," she said in his ear. Mac's mouth twitched upwards at her blunt injunction as humor replaced some of the haunted guilt in his eyes. "Now go the hell to sleep," Claire ordered him.

Mac quickly pulled his face into one of utter contriteness. "Yes ma'am," he said.

Claire drew herself up and looked at him haughtily. "That's more like it," she said with a sniff.

**xxx**

"Right," Harris said, addressing the small group which had gathered around the conference table. "I know it's late, and I'm going to cut you guys loose right after this, I promise. But I wanted everybody to know where exactly we all are on everything. First off, Mac's awake and doing a lot better. In fact, I talked to his nurse who thought he'd be out of the ICU in a couple days tops."

There was a universal chorus of sighs of relief.

"Now, to actual business." Jim pulled the paperwork in front of him closer, "I got Taylor's statement when I was just up there this evening, and it was incredibly complete." He shook his head slightly in amazement at Mac's methodical and complete recollection of everything. He knew his brain would have shut everything off except survival if he had gone through the same thing. Not to mention the man had just regained consciousness after being out for four days. "And he was able to positively ID Rivera."

"_Yes_," Giles and Quinn whisper-cheered.

"Yeah exactly," Jim said, looking up at them and smiling briefly at their reaction. But his face instantly turned serious, "Because we're not getting shit out of Rivera and his lawyer, and the only physical evidence we have placing him at the scene, is Mac's phone, and I guarantee that lawyer of his will do something to pull it apart. Speaking of, do we have anything in the way of leads on these other four guys?" Jim asked.

"We might if we could find the other weapons they used and get fingerprints," Quinn spoke up, "All I got were two different partial shoe prints and a couple fist impressions which I could potentially match when we bring the other perps in, but short of that…"

"Yeah I didn't get anything either," Chad added, "Transfer trace of a standard spray paint on one of Mac's pant legs, but no foreign biologicals to match."

"What about from his car?" Jim asked.

"Agains, no fingerprints except Mac's," Chad said, "BUT, I _did_ find the same spray paint trace half-way down the driver door."

"So we at least have confirmation that the same person was purposefully involved in the supposed break-in and beating. Excellent. We should be able to prove pre-meditated intent then. And I know Kingsley's knocking on doors and busting heads to track down the rest of Rivera's top guys, so hopefully when they now find out that Rivera's got his coffin nailed shut, we'll have them all pretty quick. What about on the original case that started all this, we got anything new on that one?"

Quinn sighed heavily, "Mac was right, the bite mark on Rivera's arm is from his wife. But all that lets us prove is that they got into a fight, it doesn't put him at the crime scene. Again, we haven't located the knife used to mutilate Quinterro, so dead-end there. And I still haven't finished typing all the samples of blood we collected. So far they're all coming back to either the wife or Quinterro. Plus, unless he left a trace of blood from the bite, Rivera didn't have any other injuries on him besides superficial scratches. And, even if I do manage to type a sample to him, unless he has a really unusual blood type, a DNA comparison to confirm it will take weeks at least."

Jim sighed, "So unless one of his guys that we bring in, turns on him, or he confesses, all we can prove is a history of domestic violence."

"I'm afraid so," Quinn said.

Jim rubbed his face with his heads. "Fuck," he said quietly. "All right, well, that's basically it for now. At least we got the bastard for attempted murder. Chad, I want you to help Quinn get through typing all those blood samples we took from the first scene. Maybe we'll get lucky. But if there's nothing else from anybody, go home, I'll see you all tomorrow."

**xxx**

The phone call Jim got the next morning, changed everything.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **_Not much in the way of preface on this chapter, except that I'm trying to be very deliberate and diligent about finishing this story so I can start back up on the other ones I have going. So if any of you follow my other stuff, hopefully I'll be getting back those soon :) In the mean time, I just want to tell all of you who have reviewed, thank you! And a special thank you to all you 'regular' reviewers :) _

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**Chapter 10**

Jim simply sat, stunned. "Say _what_?" he asked.

"The only thing him and his lawyer are agreeing to is a plea for assault and battery. He's willing to admit he wanted to give Taylor a 'little bit of a tune-up', but says his guys got carried away, he had no intentions of killing him, and he's pleading not-guilty to attempted murder," the DA paused. "Please tell me you have more than the little bit of evidence you do have, and Taylor's statement. Because otherwise, if this goes to trial, I'll be straight with you, this thing could go 50/50 at best as far as a conviction."

"WHAT?" Jim all but exploded, "50/50? My detective nearly died. Taylor stated that at least two of them wielded tire irons and he was pistol whipped across the head. That's not deadly intent? And are you trying to tell me that any jury is going to believe that Rivera "lost control" of his men? He has that whole _neighborhood_ locked down, let alone his gang!"

By this time Jim was so furious his knuckles were white from his grip on the phone handle. "And are you _SERIOUSLY_ telling me that the jury is going to believe that drug-dealing scumbag over my detective?"

Jim could all but see the DA's frustration on the other end of the phone.

"I hear you, but his lawyer is good, and all he's got to do is cast doubt on the concept of premeditated attempted murder… and he's going to try to cast doubt on the veracity of Taylor's statement due to his concussion and subsequent coma. And before you interrupt," the DA went on hurriedly.

Jim scowled as he closed his mouth against what he was going to say.

"I realize that it was mostly medically induced, but Rivera's lawyer is still going to use it. Either you come up with solid evidence linking Rivera specifically with the brutality of the beating," the DA continued, "Get one of the other suspects involved, or more preferably, to corroborate to the intent. Or see if your detective can remember anything more concrete and hope he recovers in time to testify when this thing goes to a grand jury. Otherwise, we're going to be running a huge gamble that Rivera is going to get off entirely. And whether your detective remembers anything else or not, if we go to trial, he's going to have to testify. Is he even up for that? Last I heard he was still in the ICU."

Jim sighed as some of his red-hot fury subsided, "He is. He's probably getting transferred to a regular floor sometime today, and if you're asking me whether _he's_ up to going to court, I think he'd smuggle himself out of the hospital if necessary. As for whether he'll be medically cleared in time and whether he _should_…? I honestly couldn't tell you."

"Well I have to give Rivera's lawyer an answer by the end of the business day whether we're going to trial or agreeing to a plea of assault and battery. Are you going to have either the evidence or the assurance of your detective's testimony by then?" the DA asked with some impatience.

"Yes," said Jim, although he wasn't at all sure. But he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try.

"And by the way, this is all not taking into account that Rivera's claiming your Detective Taylor was almost verbally assaultive and quite provoking when he went to question him last week."

"Don't even start with me, Foster," Jim said darkly. "You and I both know the absolute vindictive lowlife that Rivera is, and that he'd already killed his wife and butchered Quinterro, and god knows how many others he had simply cut down because he thought they crossed him in some fashion."

"Yeah, well, prove it," the DA said curtly. "Until then, we're lucky we got him on anything. I'll be waiting for your phone call."

Absolutely livid, Jim hung up without saying another word.

But Jim himself had been wondering what Rivera's motive for trying to kill Mac was. It had been niggling at him for days now. Because if he was brutally objective and honest, he was at a loss to find a reason other than Rivera's violent reputation, and the plain fact was that Taylor's "crime" did not fit the punishment. Mac hadn't searched the premises, hadn't arrested Rivera, he hadn't done anything besides call Rivera's ability to command loyalty from his men into question. Jim could potentially see Rivera knocking Taylor around a bit for that, but to try to _kill_ him? And Rivera wasn't dumb. It wasn't by accident that he was able to maintain such a high profile and yet never be brought in, or that they still weren't able to place him at the scene of his wife's murder. Rivera had to have known the huge risks of killing a police officer, yet he had still been willing to take them. _Allegedly_, Jim thought angrily. The DA had a point, however much Jim loathed to admit it. He picked up the phone again and jabbed at the numbers.

"Detective Kingsley?" he asked, "Yeah, this is Detective Harris. We got a problem."

**xxxxxx**

"Mac! What the hell are you doing?" Claire exclaimed, nearly dropping the pop she had just gotten out of the vending machine.

"Trying to get up," Mac replied, his voice tight and pain clearly on his face as he slowly pushed himself towards the edge of his bed which was reclined up at about a sixty degree angle.

"No, you most certainly are _not_," Claire ordered him. "You want to break those stitches open?" she asked, pointing at his midsection where he'd had his surgery.

Mac scowled. Hugging his splinted right arm to his chest, simultaneously stabilizing it and his ribs, he used his left arm to pivot so that he was able to drop his left foot to the floor.

"Mac!" Claire repeated in utter exasperation. Sighing loudly, she set her Mountain Dew and book on the counter by the sink, and marched over to her stubborn husband. She placed her hand on the top of his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back on the bed. Still barely able to hold himself upright, he tipped backwards against his pillow. She motioned for him to get his leg back underneath the covers. He obeyed, sulkily.

Claire sighed as she went to retrieve her things. "What am I going to do with you?" she asked looking over her shoulder at him as she opened the tab on her pop can.

"Let me get up," Mac said grumpily.

"Well _that_ isn't going to happen," Claire said firmly. "You got out of breath barely sitting up just now. Just because you're out of the ICU for _two hours_, doesn't mean you can go running around already," she sat down, propping her feet on the windowsill and fixing him with a look, "As much as you might think you can and want to."

Mac scowled again as he took short, rapid breaths, slowing his heart rate down from his exertions, and had to grudgingly admit to himself that she was right. It had taken almost all his effort to get as far as he had, and it had hurt like hell. He still didn't have to like it though, and a little pain certainly wasn't going to stop him from getting out of the hospital as fast as he could.

"Hey," Claire said gently, placing her book down and getting up. She sat next to him on his bed and turned his face, which was burning with frustration, towards hers, "Did I ever tell you you're terribly sexy when you're scruffy?"

That threw Mac and utterly derailed his irritable train of thought. "I do not," he said, somewhat embarrassed, but grinning sheepishly.

"Oh yes you do," Claire insisted, "Makes you look…rogue-ish."

He gave her that small smile of his which contained more warmth than she had ever, before meeting him, thought possible for a smile to hold.

"You like me looking 'rogue-ish'?" he asked.

Claire leaned in towards him so that only a few centimeters remained between them. "I do," she told him in a low voice. Mac's eyes gained a slight edge and depth that made her heart skip. But he remained perfectly still, letting the tension build even further as his gaze spoke more loudly than any words. Any concept of time or place other than the immediate moment and each other disappeared as their lips slowly met. And finally, free of parents and bosses and the constant comings and goings of hospital staff, they sank into their first real kiss since the morning Mac had left for work the day he was nearly killed.

The sharp ache of Mac's injuries became entirely inconsequential and non-existent as Claire pressed into him, her mouth on his and her fingers intertwined in his hair. He wrapped his arm tightly around her, almost gripping the back of her neck with his hand. All the fear and pain they had both gone through, poured out between them in that kiss, and Mac felt his throat catch as emotions far greater than words overcame them both. He pulled Claire to him so her head was resting against the small of his neck. He rested his cheek on hers' and felt the dampness of tears that she had silently shed. He suddenly found he had to hold back his own.

"I love you," he whispered, his vision blurry.

Claire sniffed and gently tightened her arms around him. "I love you too," she said.

Their mutual need for each other held them in place for a long while.

"You know," Mac said eventually in a low voice, "If staying in bed gets me kisses like that, I'm convinced."

Now it was Claire's turn to blush sheepishly as she punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Oh shut up!" she said.

Mac grinned down at her as she snuggled her head against his shoulder.

**xxxxx**

"I ain't telling you shit!" the lithe, greasy looking man told Harris belligerently from across the table.

Partnering up with some guys from narcotics, Kingsley had finally managed to collar everybody who was anything in Rivera's gang.

"We already got you, your boss, and the rest of your crew for attempted murder. You really think being uncooperative is going to help your cause?" Harris cut in threateningly.

The man leaned across the table and grinned without a trace of humor in his face. "I don't think so. Word is you got nothin'. Not. one. bit." he finished, over-enunciating each word.

"That's not what your buddy in the next room told me," Kingsley said from the corner where he was standing.

The man scoffed, "You honestly tryin' to get me to think Lewis told you anything?" He glanced Kingsley disdainfully up and down, "You're dumber than you look."

There was a knock on the door, and a short, plains clothes detective stuck his head in. He motioned to Kingsley, "Hey Tom, can I talk to you for a minute?" Kingsley nodded and excused himself, slipping out the door and closing it quietly behind him.

"Oh but we got _you_," Harris said, leaning in and getting their suspect's attention back. "We've got bruises on my detective's arm that match your fingers from where you held him up and your boss nearly beat him to death, as well as your shoeprints at the scene."

The man folded his arms in defiant silence as he sat back in his chair.

"What were you doing in that alley?" Harris asked curtly.

Silence.

"Fine," Harris said standing up, "I'm not wasting anymore of my time. See if you get anything but the book thrown at you when we go to trial."

The man shrugged. "Good luck," he said.

Harris slammed the door behind him as he left.

He was about to march off down the hall, when Kingsley called after him, sounding positively excited.

"Hey Harris, you're going to want to hear this."

Harris turned and walked back to where Kingsley and the detective who had appeared at the door, were standing.

The shorter man stuck out his hand. "Nick Cordell, narcotics," he introduced himself.

"Jim Harris, CSI," Harris replied, shaking the man's hand.

"I hear you brought our boy in," Nick said.

" 'Your boy'?" Harris asked.

"Victor Rivera. We've had our eye on him for a while now. He's been running that whole neighborhood where you guys picked him up very…ambitiously and brutally shall we say."

"I'd noticed," Harris said.

"Thing is," Nick went on, "He's only a mid-level player. He acts as though all the drug traffic in the upper Bronx runs through him, but it doesn't. He's been actively trying to get to that next tier for about the past year. Anyway, last week we got word he was going to be meeting with some larger dealers and distributors. We didn't know when or where, and we never heard the details at the time except that whatever deal Rivera was trying to set up, didn't happen. But with some leg work after Tom called us in, we found out that that meeting was what was going on when your detective and Tom stopped in for their visit. And I do know that the guys Rivera was trying to do business with wouldn't have given him a second glance after the accusations Taylor leveled at him in front of them. Basically all Rivera's efforts and work for the past year to build up a relationship and reputation with these guys was gone in a matter of a couple minutes. And given his volatility and the terror he's held that neighborhood in, that would have been more than enough catalyst for him to try to kill your detective."

Harris felt as though he could hug Nick. Instead, he settled for simply shaking the short, stocky detective's hand. "Thank you!" he said, trying to imbue those simple words with the gratitude and relief that had flooded him at the information he'd been given.

"No problem," Nick replied with a nod. "Good working with you again, Tom," he said as he turned to leave.

"You too," Kingsley told him.

As Nick left the precinct, Harris made a beeline for the nearest phone. "Foster?" he said as the DA answered, "Tell that lawyer we're going to trial." Without any further physical evidence, it still wasn't a slam dunk case, and ultimately would still rely nearly exclusively on Mac's testimony, but Harris was more than willing to take that chance. Besides, he had an extremely long-shot idea that neither Rivera or his lawyer would ever possibly anticipate.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** _Again, not much explanation on this chapter except for the fact that it's obviously at least a couple days later than the previous one. Also, as things stand, I should only have one more chapter before the story is finished. Maybe two if it starts getting long. Hope you guys like it, and I'll try to update as soon as possible! Thanks for reading!_

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**Chapter 11**

Rivera shook off the uniformed officer who had escorted him into the interrogation room, and sat down. He peered into the corner where the detective who he assumed was going to be questioning him, stood silently. "What do you want?" he asked angrily. "My lawyer's told you everything, and I ain't sayin' a damn thing without him here." But he couldn't quite make out the man's face. It didn't look like that old fucker who had questioned him the last time though. Maybe it was the other idiot who had been with him. The detective slowly pushed himself away from the wall and walked carefully towards the chair opposite Rivera. Rivera simply stared in disbelief. Then he sneered, "You. You aren't even supposed to be talking to me."

Mac sat down, face as hard as steel. "About when you tried to kill me? No, I'm not. Which is why it's a good thing that's not what I'm here to question you about." His right arm held in a sling, he placed his left one on the table and leaned across. His eyes flashed cold, and he lowered the volume of his voice, "And don't worry, I'm going to bury you in trial over that when the time comes and make sure you never know what fresh air is again."

The edge that laced his voice sent an actual thrill of fear through Rivera.

"Now," Mac continued coldly, sitting back and opening the folder he had set in front of him, "Why don't we talk about her." He slid the autopsy photo of Sophie Rivera across the table. But Rivera, rattled and now thrown by a picture of his dead wife, simply sat in stunned silence. "No?" Mac asked. He shrugged and retrieved the photo. "That's alright. How we talk about him instead." He laid out a series of the crime scene photos he had taken of Quinterro, in all the gory mess they had found him.

Rivera snorted with nothing but pure disgust on his face. He looked away and back at the pictures, disgust turning into simmering anger. "That no good fucking son of a BITCH!" he said, hitting the table, his voice progressively rising.

Mac didn't even flinch at the outburst. He just waited in silence as Rivera tried to marshal his rage, clearly holding back things he knew he shouldn't say.

Rivera glared at Mac. "Fine," he said, regaining some of his control and crossing his arms, "You think you know everything, why don't you tell me what you think I did."

"Oh I believe I've already told you what I think," Mac answered deliberately, fixing Rivera with a look. "But I suppose if you don't want to talk I might as well." He shifted slightly in his seat so his belt buckle didn't feel as if it was digging into his midsection as much. He had worn it as low and loose as possible, but any sort of external pressure on his abdomen was still painful.

Suddenly the door burst open and Rivera's lawyer stormed in. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "Whatever this interview is about, it's over. Now."

But Rivera held up his hand, his eyes never leaving Mac's face. "No. I want to hear what he has to say." He leaned across the table and smiled humourlessly. "What this…_cop,_" he all but spat the word, "Thinks he's got on me."

And this was precisely what Harris and Mac had counted on: Rivera's vindictive pride and ego, only this time they would use it against him.

The lawyer all but glared at Mac. "I'm going to make sure anything said here is made inadmissible."

"You can try," Mac returned, unfazed.

On the other side of the one-way glass, Harris watched in impressed amazement. He found himself not ever wanting to be on the other side of the table from Mac. He knew his new detective had spent several years as a Marine officer, but he started to get a true, clear idea of the depth of leadership and natural skill the man had. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought Mac had years of experience as a detective under his belt, instead of his badge still being warm off the press. Sure he had stuff to catch up on as far as the lab side of things went, but given his upcoming restriction to the lab while he recovered, he'd make up for lost time in the science world before too long. Besides, new procedures and technology could be taught, the natural talent for the job that Harris was witnessing, could not. Harris found himself thanking whatever lucky star he had that he had decided to take the gamble to hire Mac despite his abbreviated police experience and extended time away from his degree.

"So, what? You think I killed them?" Rivera said, uncrossing one of his arms to point at the pictures which were still spread out.

"I don't think it, I know it," Mac returned.

xxxxxxxxxx

"He's pinning this all on you, you know," Kingsley said almost flippantly.

"Yeah whatever," the man sitting across from him said.

He was very fidgety in an unsettled sort of way, constantly sniffing and wiping his arm across his nose and only making the most fleeting eye contact.

"Must suck not being able to get a fix. You're looking a little worse for wear than the last time you were in here," Quinn commented.

The man shot her a glare. "Shut up," he said.

Quinn smiled.

"And what the hell are you talking about anyway?" the man said, addressing Kingsley.

"Your boss, Rivera, says you and your buddies were the ones who got carried away and tried to kill Detective Taylor." Kingsley leaned closer, "You know the kind of sentences attempted cop killers get?" he asked.

"And we got you," Quinn added. "Got you and a couple of your pals all over that alley like I told you the last time, and we got you all over this scene too," she continued, placing pictures of the initial crime scene with Quinterro and Rivera's wife in front of their suspect. In reality, all they had were handprints that matched bruises on Quinterro's ankles where he'd been held down and Sophie's wrists, but he didn't need to know that.

"Oh hell no man, I ain't going down for that," their suspect said, the position he was in finally sinking in.

Quinn and Kingsley just waited in silence.

The man shifted back and forth in his seat, clearly trying to decide how much or little he should say. "What kinda deal do I get?" he asked.

"Let's just say you might stand an offside chance of parole at some point. Otherwise you're looking at nothing but a jumpsuit with block lettering for the rest of your life."

"I wanna talk to my lawyer first."

Quinn shrugged, "Sure. But he's just going to tell you to take the deal, because he knows you don't stand a chance of getting out of this."

Their suspect chewed his lip and fidgeted. "He killed them," he said suddenly, casting the dice and making up his mind. He pointed at the pictures of Quinterro and Sophie Rivera. "And he was there and ordered the hit on him," he pushed Mac's picture across the table. "I ain't getting pinned for this shit," he repeated, shaking his head, "No way."

xxxxxxxxxx

"You and Vincent Quinterro grew up together, were street level drug runners together, and when you got ambitious enough to start your own operation, Vincent was right there with you. Your operation grew, your turf grew, you had a wife who you thought was as much under your thumb as the rest of your neighborhood, and you had what you thought was the reputation and clout to make it to the next level. But then it all started to go south, didn't it?" Mac said, leaning across the table. "Sophie got tired of your increasingly controlling, abusive ways. You started suspecting her of cheating. So the other week you took a couple of your guys and followed her. Didn't even once cross your mind why Quinterro wasn't around at the moment." Mac could see Rivera getting increasingly livid.

"All right that's enough," Rivera's lawyer said. "Come on," he motioned, standing up.

But Rivera remained seated, arms folded, glaring at Mac. "No," he said, leaning right back across the table, meeting Mac's eyes as if daring him to continue, "I want to know what he thinks happened next."

Mac stared right back, unflinchingly. "You went up to that apartment and you saw her with Quinterro."

Rivera's lawyer reluctantly sat back down as Mac continued.

"Saw her with not just another man but the one man who was supposed to more than anyone have your back, the one you trusted the most. And there he was, touching her, kissing her…"

Rivera's eyes grew dangerous.

Mac leaned in ever so slightly further in. "…making love to her…" he finished, his voice trailing off and leaving Rivera with that last mental image and memory.

The ensuing deafening silence hung for what seemed like an eternal few seconds, and both Harris and Rivera's lawyer found themselves inadvertently holding their breath.

And then Rivera exploded across the table. Mac ducked, but Rivera still managed to catch him by his right shoulder and skid him across the floor. Pain flared across his ribs and down his right arm at the impact of hitting the concrete floor.

Harris swore, and bolted from the observation room.

Mac rolled awkwardly to one side as Rivera tried to grab him by the front of his shirt, hooking Rivera's ankle and tripping him to one knee. But Rivera was uninjured and fast. Quickly regaining his footing, he hauled Mac to his feet and slammed him against the wall, landing a vicious knee in his midsection. Mac buckled at the pain which blurred his vision and took the capacity to breath from him.

"I should have made sure I finished you off while I had the chance," Rivera hissed in absolute, livid fury as three uniformed officers hauled him off Mac, who collapsed to his knees and fell forward onto his uninjured arm.

A split second later, Harris burst in the door. He turned briefly to the man's lawyer who had retreated to the far corner. "Your client's done," he said fiercely, as the officers hauled Rivera away. The lawyer acknowledged him with the barest of nods before trying to make as dignified an exit as possible. Harris hurried over to Mac who still hadn't gotten up. He knelt in front of the younger man, his stomach dropping with jolt. He had expected to get a rise out of Rivera, but hadn't anticipated to this extent. He lay a hand on Mac's shoulder, "Mac, are you ok?"

Mac nodded wordlessly, his face tight, catching his breath and forcing his vision back into focus.

Harris gently sat him off his knees and leaned him back against the wall.

"I'm fine," Mac managed.

Harris shot him a look. "Let me see," he said, removing Mac's hand that was now holding his midsection and unbuttoning the man's shirt. "The hell you are," Harris said, seeing that Mac had already started bleeding through to his undershirt. He reached for the phone that was on the wall.

"I'm not going in an ambulance," Mac interrupted, pushing himself painfully to his feet.

"You," Harris said pointing at him sternly, "Are not the one making these decisions. Now sit back down."

Realizing he didn't have a choice in the matter and acquiescing to the orders of his boss, Mac slid back down the wall resignedly. Claire would _not_ be happy when he called her to pick him back up from the ER. He closed his eyes against the pain that reduced itself to an angry throb as he waited for the paramedics to arrive, and sighed.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **_So this is the final chapter. Hope it's satisfactory as I have a far harder time coming up with the last 'wrap-up' stuff than anything else almost. Thank you all SO much for reading this story, and extra special huge THANK YOU to all my reviewers and especially all of you who reviewed on a regular basis!_ _Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Five hours later, a CAT scan to make sure no further internal damage was done, and eight stitches to close the incision that had reopened from the assault, Mac leaned exhaustedly back in the passenger seat of their car as Claire drove them back to their apartment. He closed his eyes, enjoying the residual effects of the pain meds he had received. But he could still feel Claire's occasional sideways glares at him as they made their way through traffic. He sighed. "Just say it," he told her resignedly.

"Sometimes you are the most boneheaded idiot I have ever come across!" Claire told him heatedly.

Mac waited for her to continue. "Is that it?" he asked when she didn't say anything further.

"Yes," she said with punctuation.

They drove through one more traffic light in silence. "No," she amended.

Mac had had a feeling he wasn't going to get off that easy.

"I mean, what the _hell_ were you thinking? You got discharged yesterday, early, on condition you do _nothing_ for a week. It's bad enough that you went in to work at all. And then, instead of anything 'easy' like an official deposition about what happened, you don't just interview a suspect, you get in the same damn room as the man who tried to _kill_ you! You do realize the implication and meaning of '_kill_ you'?" She stopped out of sheer inability to articulate her furious disbelief at the position Mac had placed himself in.

But Mac knew better than to say anything just yet.

"Did you even stop for two seconds to consider what you were doing?" Claire managed after half a minute.

Mac waited to see if she'd plow on, but apparently that had been an actual question and he tried to come up with a way to answer it. He _had_ given thought to it, but he realized it was only from the perspective of the opportunity they had to trip Rivera up and without a moment's thought about his own potential safety or current condition.

"Sort of," he replied.

Claire shot him a murderous look. "What do you mean, 'sort of'?" she asked.

Mac opened and closed his mouth, trying to figure out a way to explain without incurring more of Claire's wrath. He decided there wasn't one. He sighed heavily, "I mean, not in the way you're talking about."

"You mean all you thought about was getting the bad guy," Claire stated.

"Yes," Mac said, almost shifting in his seat as he hoped Claire wouldn't follow up with the next obvious question.

She did.

"And _why_ exactly couldn't any one of the other myriad of detectives in the whole of the NYPD have questioned this guy?"

Mac paused.

Claire's mouth all but dropped open and she stared at him as the realization of his hesitation sunk in. "You did it on purpose," she said in shocked disbelief. "You _knew_ he'd slip up in some way with you specifically being the one interrogating him."

"Well it's not like I anticipated he'd go that far," Mac attempted in his defense.

Claire lifted her hands off the steering wheel in pure exasperation. "Oh, 'you didn't anticipate he'd go that far'?" she echoed. "Again, what part of 'he. tried. to. _kill._ you.' do you not get? Or are you just so used to that risk you don't think about its implication anymore?"

That hit Mac hard. Because the truth was, he really didn't. And he didn't consciously not think about the risks he took, it was just that he _had_ gotten so accustomed to living with the acceptance that threat to his life simply came with what he did, that to say he took it in stride was a rather significant understatement. Not mention his natural propensity to rush into doing something without thinking about it, seeing an opportunity and taking it instantaneously. But he also recognized the dual meaning behind Claire's last question: whether he realized or stopped to consider the implication to _her_ when he put himself in such situations, and it was this latter point which pulled him up abruptly short.

Claire glared furiously out the front windshield. "I hope they didn't use any lidocaine when they stitched you back up," she shot at him.

Despite the guilt that had settled heavily in his chest, Mac's mouth twitched upwards at her vindictive wish. He knew he shouldn't find any part of this amusing, but he couldn't help it. He struggled to bite back an all-out grin and choked back snickers of laughter.

"It's not funny!" Claire snapped at him.

Mac fought to straighten his face, but he could see some of the tension in Claire's shoulders and face disappear and the atmosphere become slightly less volcanic. "I'm sorry," he managed, trying to sound contrite, "You're right, it's not. And if it makes any difference, they didn't wait quite long enough for it to work entirely before they started."

"Good," Claire told him emphatically as she looked over her shoulder to change lanes.

Mac grinned briefly before letting a somewhat defused silence reign for a couple blocks. "And I'm sorry," he continued quietly, "I just…it's…" he raised his left hand in a hopeless endeavor to explain something that really didn't have an explanation.

"I know," Claire said, her tone softening. She sighed heavily. As furious as she was with Mac, she could picture his thought process, _and non-thought process_ she thought dryly, that had led up to the whole thing only too well. "And it's not that I have a problem with the risks of your job. You know that," she said with emphasis, looking over at him pointedly.

He did.

"But honestly, Mac," she continued with a hint of exasperation in her voice, "Could you possibly manage to be a little less…" she searched for the right word, "…_you,_ on these very few occasions…please?"

Mac smiled slightly. "I'll try," he said.

"Thank you," Claire sniffed, "And you can start by not budging off the couch when we get home." She glared at him, "For a week."

"Not at all?" Mac asked, with a perfectly straight face, "For a week?"

Claire punched him hard in his shoulder, but Mac could see her try not to smile.

"You know exactly what I mean," she told him.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Claire's father stayed for that next week as well to help out before flying back to Chicago since Claire had to go back to work, and with his body given a chance to rest and make itself heard, Mac realized how badly he needed to simply recover yet. He hated admitting it. But from the unspoken gloat in Claire's face after he slept for most of the next 24 hours, he knew he didn't have to say anything. But there was only so much pointless daytime TV he could take, and by mid-afternoon on his second day of confinement to the couch, he called Harris with a request. An hour later, Quinn dropped off a whole stack of procedure and equipment manuals from the lab for him to peruse.

He spent hours familiarizing himself with the various tests and procedures to detect different biologicals on a multitude of surfaces, and the burgeoning development of far more detailed blood and even DNA testing. Not to mention simply becoming familiar with a whole new vocabulary of equipment and tests. He'd obviously already gotten a start on it all during his first three weeks at the crime lab, but it had been scattered and non-exclusive, and after a couple days of focused study, he found himself coming up with ideas for various tests that weren't specifically listed. This prompted him to ask his father-in-law to go out on an expedition to the New York City library with a list of further chemistry and biology research application reference material, and books and manuals and science journals soon littered the coffee table and space around the couch in a multitude of semi-organized piles. He enjoyed it, enjoyed the mental challenge and realized how much he'd missed doing this sort of thing over the past several years.

Eric was perfectly happy to spend most of his time lounging back and watching TV and Mac and Claire's video collection, especially after he asked Mac what exactly it was he was reading and Mac had simply read aloud from where he was, "Large ferromagnetic particles can be ripped out of the homogeneous colloidal mixture, forming a separate clump of magnetic dust when exposed to strong magnetic fields. The magnetic attraction of nanoparticles is weak enough that the surfactant's Van der Waals force is sufficient to prevent magnetic clumping or agglomeration. The difference between ferrofluids and magnetorheological fluids is…"

"Ok, enough!" said Eric, thoroughly overwhelmed. He shook his head, "Who would've thought there'd be such a thing as a smart Marine."

Mac laughed. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't expect an Army guy to understand this stuff anyway," he said.

Eric pointed at him, "You, watch it."

Mac returned to his reading with a smile.

**Xxxxxxxxxxxx**

Faced with the circumstantial evidence, Mac's official detailed statement regarding the assault which included Rivera's threat to kill him while he was on the phone with Claire, and with the rest of his crew practically tripping over each other to reduce the prison time they all faced, Victor Rivera pled guilty the following week to two counts of 2nd degree murder for his wife and Vincent Quinterro and attempted murder for the assault on Mac. But for some reason Mac got relatively little satisfaction out of it. As impulsive and inadvisable as it had been for him to have interviewed Rivera that day after he was released from the hospital, ultimately it was the reaction that that specific set of circumstances had provoked which had led to Rivera's conviction. They had never managed to find either the knife used at the first crime scene, or Rivera's gun or the tire used in the assault on him in the alley. If it hadn't have been for Rivera's reaction in the interrogation room, the evidence alone could have left both cases going either way, and that, Mac was not particularly happy about. It left him feeling almost as if they'd failed the case in the end. He couldn't help wondering if some of the advances he knew were on the horizon would have let them close the case without the need to "trap" Rivera. Let the evidence speak for itself. Maybe there _had_ been trace DNA at the scene from when Sophie had bitten her husband but they just couldn't detect it or track it.

Claire slipped her hand into Mac's as they left the courtroom. In the end, he was just immensely glad the whole thing was over. He squeezed his fingers around Claire's, and she smiled up at him. As they waited for the elevator, Mac heard his name called from behind him. Puzzled, he looked over his shoulder and saw a figure hurrying over to him.

"Dr. Giles," he said with some surprise as the man came up.

"Hey!" Leonard Giles said extending his left hand, "How are you doing?"

"Much better," said Mac, shaking the ME's hand, noticing and grateful for the little gesture that Giles hadn't automatically tried to shake his hand that was still encased in a cast and sling.

"Hi Claire," Giles greeted.

"Hey, Leonard," Claire returned with a smile.

"So what are you doing here?" Mac asked.

"I was going to try to catch Rivera's guilty plea, but of course another three DOAs had to come in as I was trying to head out."

"Isn't that how it always goes?" Mac asked dryly, thinking back on all the times he'd gotten out of work late, and would in all certainty continue do so.

"Indeed," Giles returned in the same tone of voice. "So his lawyer finally convinced him to plead out then?" he asked in reference to Rivera

The elevator dinged, and after letting its couple of occupants out, the three of them entered and pushed the button for the main level.

"Yes," Mac replied, "I got the impression that his lawyer told him he was obligated to put up a defense and take it to trial if that's what Rivera insisted on, but essentially said it wouldn't be worth his effort. Not _quite_ that bluntly, but nearly."

The elevator door opened again, and Mac and Claire and Giles made their way to the front doors of the courthouse and the steps leading down to the sidewalk. Mac still walked relatively slowly and with a slight limp from the hairline fracture by his right hip. Claire slid her hand back into Mac's again.

"So I take it things are as busy as ever?" Mac asked.

"Oh yes," said Giles, "Springtime in the city never stops. Speaking of, do you know when you'll be cleared to come back to work?"

"Next Monday," Mac replied as Claire waved down a cab, "Lab only though," he qualified as he saw Giles' slight surprise at how soon it was.

"Oh that makes sense," Giles said. "You'll have to come down and pay us basement dwellers a visit if you get bored."

Mac laughed.

"Well hey, I'll let you guys get going, and I gotta get back anyway," Giles added heavily. "It was good seeing you again," he finished warmly.

Mac smiled, "Likewise. And thanks again for everything. Really."

Leonard flapped his hand dismissively. "Don't mention it," he said. "I'll see you 'round at work."

"Bye!" said Claire, opening the door to the cab that pulled up.

"Bye," Leonard smiled warmly.

Mac slid into the back seat next to Claire.

"You know, I'm not sure I'm ready for you to go back to work just yet," Claire said. "I rather like having you all to myself whenever I want."

"Oh you do…?" Mac replied, his eyes deep and sparkling. "Even when I'm confined to the couch?"

"_Especially_ when you're confined to the couch," Claire said with sly half-grin.

Mac felt his mind momentarily fumble as heat rushed through him and his heartrate decided to skyrocket of its own accord. Controlling his respirations which had also ran away with themselves, he leaned over to Claire and spoke low in her ear. Her grin danced at him as he sat back up, a small devilish smile playing irrepressibly on his lips.

Aware they were in a cab with the driver able to hear every word they said, Claire simply continued to sneak sideways looks at his irrepressibly mischievous eyes as she disentangled her fingers from his and lay her hand on his leg instead. And Mac, fighting to contain the adrenaline and need that burned through him at Claire's subtle but teasing touch, knew that no cabbie in all of New York could possibly make that drive short enough.


End file.
